Unatoned
by SeriousScribble
Summary: Secrets of the war, a murder and a fatal attraction: After his victory over Voldemort, Harry became an Auror, and realised quickly that it wasn't at all like he had imagined. Disillusioned with the Ministry, he takes on a last case, but when he starts digging deeper, his life takes a sudden turn … AUish, Post-Hogwarts. HP/DG
1. Chapter 1

**Extended Summary:**  
_Secrets of the war, a murder and a fatal attraction: After his victory over Voldemort, Harry became an Auror, and realised quickly that it wasn't at all like he had imagined. In a world where the death of the Dark Lord did nothing to change the fundamental problems, he's on his own, estranged from his friends and changed by a long two-year war that has left scars. Disillusioned with the people and the Ministry, he takes on a last case, but when he starts digging deeper, his life takes a sudden turn, and he discovers a fundamental truth: Nothing is more attractive than a dangerous woman …_

AUish, Post-Hogwarts. Disregards most of DH. Harry/Astoria, Harry/Daphne.

**A/N:**  
This story features Harry as an Auror, influenced by the typical antiheros of the classical period of American hardboiled fiction. The first chapter, in fact, is a nod to one of the most well-known stories from that time, Raymond Chandler's _The Big Sleep_. The plot though is entirely my own.

That aside, one important reason this story came into being is because I heartily dislike the rampant implementations of Daphne as an "Ice-Queen". I have no idea what everyone's fascination with that term is, when there isn't even a good definition around; in any case, having her consist out of some 'hard shell, soft core' character (where the 'hard shell' part lasts for as long as Harry needs to lay eyes on her i.e. the first chapter) got old without ever convincing me, and so this is the real deal. Daphne's imperious, stuck-up and unfeeling. In other words, a veritable bitch. This, at last, fits _my_ definition of an "Ice-Queen". And thus, as far as I am concerned, this is Harry/Daphne done right.

.

The story's more or less finished at about 100k words, so I'm shooting for regular updates twice a week (Wednesday & Saturday).

It wouldn't be here though without the help of the following persons and things: Mindless, who shared my fondness for noir, Vlad, who shared my fondness for this version of Daphne, Nuhuh, who read a very _special_ scene; the #darklordpotter IRC-Channel and the DLP Forums incl. its inhabitants; my Beta Matt Silver, who answered all my odd questions (his penname is Matt Silver 3k, and he's got two awesome stories – _Breach of Contract_ and _Incorruptible_), and BillDoor, who fished out the last spelling mistakes. Thanks to all of you guys.

Neither Rowling nor Chandler's stuff is mine. Enjoy :)

* * *

** Unatoned**

**A Harry Potter Noir Story**

o

_To all the women who are beautiful and know it,  
__Murder with class,_  
_And behave like a lady._

_Let's have a toast. It's a dying breed._

**–––CHAPTER 1–––**

**T**HE HEAT of the August sun beat down on my neck. The air in the small valley didn't move at all, it weighed muggily in the depression, and it was only midmorning. I wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my robes, dark blue, Auror-standard. I'd eat a Hippogriff if there wouldn't be a thunderstorm before nightfall.

As of yet, however, the sky was still steely blue over the flat chalk hills in the south-western corner of Suffolk. The gravel path on which I was walking wound its way down through the valley and up the counter slope, to an expansive two store building, which gleamed white in the bright light. It was surrounded by well-kept, extensive gardens and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, with an imposing gate including a coat of arms, through which the road led and where I now stood: I had reached Greengrass Hall.

The gate swung open before I'd done anything in particular. Well, I _was_ expected. I was here to do some pretence work – that was, questioning Sterling Greengrass about his possible involvement into Death Eater or Dark activities during the war, with the strong urging to not dig up anything. Which, of course, was the problem. And my day had even started as usual – too early, with too much paperwork left over from last week that I didn't care for, with the mind numbing task of filing that crap and with me bored out of my mind. Perhaps in retrospect, I shouldn't have said that out loud while Robards, in his capacity as Head Auror, was within hearing distance; but I had, and it was the truth.

So I had gotten stuck with the Greengrass file, which no one had wanted to take on because Sterling Greengrass was a big shot in the Ministry; he'd simply slipped in Malfoy's role, after their fall from grace. Everyone feared for their own career first. Wasn't it always that way? And Greengrass senior was a choleric old coot, infamous for the grudges he held; so stepping on his toes was the last thing anyone wanted to do – and now I had to.

I took the photo from a pocket. It had been enclosed in the file, a paper clipping if the backside was any indication, showing the Greengrasses, standing right here where I now stood, in front of the manor, on a sunny day some summers past. Both Greengrass sisters looked quite similar to one another. The older, on the left side, appearing comparatively tall; with pale skin and chiselled, well-proportioned features framed by ash blonde hair and grey eyes, whereas the younger one's were blue and her hair more goldish-blonde. Otherwise, she looked like a smaller copy of her sister, both exceptionally beautiful.

They smiled at the camera-lens, an arm around their grandfather who stood in the middle, and eventually, the young girl burst into a silent fit of giggles, while her sister tried to reprimand her. I watched her stuff her fist into her mouth to stop the giggles from escaping.

It looked like a perfect happy little family. And the youngest Greengrass looked like a little angel in her white dress.

The front door opened. A small head with overly large ears and eyes peered around the doorframe, outside, at me.

"Is Mister Auror Harry Potter sir not going to be coming inside?"

I stuffed the picture back into my pocket and shrugged.

"If Greengrass is ready now."

I entered the main hall, which was as high as the building. After the sweltering heat outside, the first thing I noticed was the coldness. It swept across my face, crawled up my arms until it made me shiver. The thick stone kept the air even in the blazing summer sun as cold as in a grave.

"I is telling Master Greengrass that yous be here now."

With that the House Elf popped away, while the door closed behind me with a soft sigh. And the house was silent, which somehow seemed far louder than the loudest noise could have been. I stood in the middle of the hall, alone; my back and left arm shaded in a sea green from the light filtering though the stained glass panel that was set in the wall above the entrance doors, which really were more of a portal. Apart from the chandelier with burning candles suspended from the obscure and high-up ceiling, this was the only source of light, plunging the hall into a murky half-dark.

On my left side, a wide, sweeping staircase, tile paved, led in a small turn up to a gallery overlooking the hall on the second floor. Alongside it, on the wall, hung portraits, alive or not I couldn't tell; but every single one was staring at me, together with far too many hidden eyes from within the dark. The first one was a dark-haired man with a moustache and an especially penetrating gaze, stormy grey eyes trying to drill holes into me; the eyes of a man you'd better not cross. I thought this might be Sterling Greengrass in his prime, or perhaps his deceased son.

He was still staring at me.

I started to feel uncomfortable and turned away. On the right side was a lounge area that looked like it had been there for decades just like that; faded red plush on old-fashioned settees. Next to it stood an imposing knight's armour, complete with spear and missing shield.

I walked over, my steps on the stone floor echoing softly, sitting down on an armchair.

It was stately, certainly, but it all seemed to radiate an atmosphere of decline, as though the best years had been past years; stuffy and with the sickly sweet smell of decay in the air, imposing pieces of furniture only surface-pretence, like the apple that was rotten inside, while the surface, red and shiny, desperately tried to keep up an image of that which was no longer true.

Then again, perhaps that was just in my imagination. I ran my hand over my face. What was up with me?

Something rustled behind me, and that was definitely no imagination.

I jerked my head around, staring at the stairs. It wasn't the House Elf coming back. It was a girl.

She looked sixteen or seventeen years old; not yet fully grown, but by no means it made her look awkward like so many other teenagers. Instead, she seemed to have taken the best of either, which made for a dangerous combination of cute and beautiful. She was a little delicate, but her dark blue eyes looked out sharply, too hard. It was a strange contrast to the rest of her, like a piece that didn't fit with the rest of the puzzle. As though she had read my mind, she cast down her eyes, peering at me through her dark lashes.

She started to move, seemingly floating down the stairs, her deep-cut red robes rustling again. They looked good on her. She stopped when she reached the lounge area, smiling a little smile, which showed her perfect white teeth, for a short moment; shiny almost like porcelain; giving her a predatory look.

"You're Harry Potter," she said.

"Are you sure?" I said.

The smile grew, and she took the last step towards me, sitting down on the armrest of the chair.

"You're funny." She looked me up and down. "Cute too. But what would the handsome, heroic vanquisher of the Dark Lord be doing as an low-ranking Auror?"

"He would be earning money," I said. "I got an Order of Merlin, First Class, and a lot of handshakes, not a million Galleons. The Ministry's pretty tight on money, after Voldemort ransacked their funds."

She giggled in secret merriment, as if I just had made a joke. Then she bit her lip and lowered her head, glancing at me sideways. I wondered if this was her attempt of looking coy. It was ruined by the way she spoke.

"I _bet_ we two could have fun. Don't you think?"

And before I could do or say anything, she let herself drop backwards, right onto me. She stretched luxuriously, her slender, young body pressed against my own. Past her crown of gold blonde hair, I had a perfect view down her robes. I gaped at her.

"Listen, Angel –"

"Angel," she interrupted. "Yes. I like that. You may call me that."

They hadn't yet thought her sarcasm. She twisted her head, which was resting on my chest, looking up at me, and the giggle was back when she realised the view I had.

"Nice, isn't it?" Her hand came up, small fingers tracing my face. "I like you too."

That was it.

I rose, unheeding that it pushed her down onto the hard floor. I wasn't in the mood to deal with girls right now, much less _this_ girl, and I had an appointment. She laughed as she picked herself off of the floor, straightening her robes with a simple flick of her wand.

"Perhaps later?"

I sincerely doubted that. She turned her body slowly and lithely, without lifting her feet, a step closer, only inches away from me. Her big blue eyes looked up in mine, a little glassy, I thought, but it was hard to tell in this light. At that moment, a soft popping noise alerted me; past her shoulder, I saw the House Elf which had returned. She must have noticed the change in my look, because her head jerked around. She spotted the Elf, gasped a little, and, quick like a deer, darted across the hall and up the stairs. She had vanished around a corner upstairs before I had released the breath I had been holding.

"Master Greengrass will be seeing yous now," the Elf squeaked. It looked perturbingly composed.

I tore my eyes away from the staircase and nodded.

"Who was that?"

"Mistress Astoria Greengrass, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir." I wondered if I detected the faintest trace of reproach in its squeaky voice, but then dismissed it. What happened in the Greengrass house wasn't my problem; the old man was, and when the House Elf repeated its announcement politely, I followed it across the hall.

o ] [ o

Sterling Greengrass was in his study on the ground floor.

He was sitting in a straightbacked wooden chair, with some ornaments cut into the brown wood, which made it look fancy, but not any more comfortable; surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. There was a large desk, in front of two open French doors leading out into the garden, letting the muggy air inside, still with no cooling draught to speak of.

I blinked a little at the bright, daylight-filled room after walking through dim corridors, and my eyes moved over the desk, with a little meticulously arranged stacks of paperwork, on to the fireplace, which was cold and had a little paper ash lying inside it. Neither on the desk nor on the mantelpiece nor anywhere else were any photographs. I noticed this, as it seemed rather unusual – only looking at the study, no one would've thought that there were other people besides Sterling Greengrass living in this house.

In fact, there were only two personal items there as far as I could tell: On the marble mantelpiece was an old-fashioned mantelpiece clock, ticking away the seconds as the hand was slowly creeping towards eleven a.m. Over the door, the stuffed grey head of a Graphorn displayed two impressive and wickedly sharp horns. Perhaps it was a hunting trophy, from some decades ago.

The important thing being the 'decades ago' – Sterling Greengrass was _old_. I had to repress the urge to stare at him. I hadn't seen him in the Ministry the last two or so years, and now I knew the reason – he was looking gaunt and frail, almost dead or at least dying. His burgundy robes looked expensive enough, but on him they flagged, contrasting in their appearance with his haggard form, only serving to further highlight his bad state. His face was waxen, mask-like; the greyish skin stretched too taut over his cheekbones, and sunken right next to it; hollowed cheeks, the sharp, typical nose, and his wrinkled temple, which his claw-like fingers were now rubbing, shaking slightly.

I thought that the choice of the chair wasn't so much done for its dubious comfort than born from the need to appear in this meeting sitting straight, which the almost vertical backrest of the chair provided, and then I wondered why he wouldn't use glamour charms if he cared for appearances.

As it was, it helped him to a last rest of presence – together with his eyes, the same slate-grey his oldest granddaughter had, which, although all the fire they'd held at one time had died, still occasionally flashed sharply from under bushy eyebrows, telling of a shrewd mind that his body was slowly but surely betraying.

He opened his bloodless lips, and his voice was a dry rustle.

"Some of Ogden's finest, Tilly. How do you like it?"

The last part was directed at me. I shrugged.

"Any way, sir."

He nodded, satisfied. The Elf that had led me here popped away.

"That's the right way. Old Ogden's works in every situation. I used to refine Rosmerta's Oak Mead with it, two fingers of that and three quarters of a glass of Ogden's beneath it. Sit down, man."

He snapped the last part, and I took a seat in a second chair, similar to his. An almost full cut-glass bottle and a glass with an amber liquid appeared on the desk. He sniffed at it, like bulldog on a rabbit hole, then pushed it towards me.

"Have a drink."

I rose my eyebrows.

"Nothing for you, sir?"

"Can't. The healer said I wasn't allowed. It would be deteriorative to my health, apparently, but I only think she fears I might die sooner, which would give her less time treating me and thus less of my money. Greedy quacksalver."

He glared at me, as though I were the healer.

"As if I weren't dying anyway."

When I didn't make a move to pick up the glass immediately, he waved his bony hand impatiently.

"Go ahead. I like watching others drink. Some man you are, if you have to indulge your vices by proxy, eh?"

He wheezed out a dry chuckle, and perhaps I looked a little baffled when I sipped my drink, because he glared at me again, before he was stopped by a sudden violent coughing fit. The elf was suddenly back again, carrying a silver plate which a single vial with a clear liquid on it. He downed it in one gulp, the prominent Adam's apple in his lean grey throat moving heavily as he swallowed. I frowned.

"You are looking at a man with terminal magical burnout. I understand that answers those ridiculous and impudent questions you came to ask?"

I started.

That explained his condition, as well as the missing glamours, if he had no one to do it for him.

"You can't do magic anymore? Not even a simply _Lumos_?"

"I'm no better at magic than a filthy squib, Potter," he growled. "My magic slowly started to wither away approximately ten years ago, and in the last two, my body has started to follow right after, when it couldn't live without magic any longer. Nowadays, I'm as helpless as an infant, depending on the stupid elves and my damned granddaughters, whenever they feel like being helpful."

Sidetracked for a moment from the questions regarding his involvement in the war, I placed the quill and the parchment I had taken out onto the desk. I couldn't, for the life of me, imagine the girl I just had met caring tenderly for her fatally ill grandfather.

I said, "I met Astoria in the hall. She didn't particularly look the caring type. Well, at least not for anyone your age."

A cynical smile showed on his thin lips.

"She did anything to you?"

He said it as though he was expecting her to.

"She sat in my lap."

He snorted like a horse.

"Little harlot. Bet she was on some potions again, too. I wouldn't know – how the hell am I supposed to know what's in vogue today there? Eh? That's your field, man."

He stared at me as if I would tell him what potion was currently hip in the magical underworld and what his granddaughter might have downed. I stared back at him, wondering about the manner in which he spoke about his granddaughter. To a stranger, no less. There always were rumours – both sisters were said to be wild and unrestrained, but it was always on the quiet, hush-hush, with nothing substantial ever showing up in any official records. Yes, the Ministry was indeed more helpful than ever.

For those who could afford it and knew the right people.

The old man nodded slowly, as if reading my thoughts and perhaps he was, since I had never mastered Occlumency. His head moved with as little exercise as possible, as if his neck was afraid of the weight of his head.

"But you're right, most times it is only Daphne looking after me. Astoria isn't even of age yet. She's a spoilt child testing her boundaries and finding none, and otherwise delights in being cruel and shockingly superficial. You want to know something, Potter?"

I probably didn't, but he was going to tell me anyway.

"I can't _stand_ my granddaughters. They are useless, rotten things. Especially Daphne. Oh, she's smart alright, and the right kind of smart too, calculating, ruthless, but she doesn't give a Hippogriff's arse about family. So I would naturally throw her out and dump her at a brothel, but of course …" His gaunt, almost skeletal hands rose from the desk, shaking slightly, making his point. Then he made an angry noise. "Bah, I bet even that wouldn't make her blink. Cold, stuck-up trash. Sometimes I wonder if she's even capable of anything resembling affection, the damn bitch."

I only stared at him with my mouth open. Where had that come from? His lips stretched into a nasty grin, nearly disappearing in the process.

"Shocked how I talk about my own kin, Potter? I'm just being a realist. I feel like I'm old enough and senile enough to not longer indulge into self-adulating hypocrisy and not longer care about what I say, and most importantly, about what my granddaughters do. It's not as if I could stop it. Neither has an ounce of moral that I know of, but then again, I don't either. They are picking their own roads to perdition, as has every Greengrass, so I can't say I feel the tiniest bit sorry for them."

He looked at me, seemingly satisfied with his rant, and added more choice words; and I was momentarily taken aback at the sheer plethora of filth and the torrent of abuse he poured over his granddaughters in front of me. Never mind that from what I knew, every last word of it was probably true, but he was still their only remaining family. Instead, I got the feeling that he enjoyed degrading them as much as he enjoyed throwing people off balance. There was absolutely no love lost between them. It wasn't any of my business, at all, but I couldn't deny that there was a certain horrible fascination at seeing the happy little family from the paper clipping torn to pieces in front of my very eyes, to see the ugliness that was beneath the perfect, shiny surface of that picture.

I shook my head and downed the rest of the Firewhisky. It burned in my stomach, I hadn't yet had a decent breakfast as I'd been running late like almost every Monday, but it helped me to focus back onto my task. I set the empty glass onto the desk, and picked up my quill. Self-inking, ever-sharp.

"So you weren't involved in any Death Eater or other Dark activities, then?"

It was an half-arsed attempt to catch the dour old man off guard.

The only thing it did was trigger another fit of rage. Greengrass started to breath heavily through his nose. It was a stertorous and unhealthy sound.

"Are you completely incompetent, you inane idiot? I just told you that my magic is gone, which of course you will keep confident." He fixated me with an irate glare. "When the Dark Lord was around, I was already severely weakened, unable to be of any use. Imagine a Mudblood. That weak."

I let that comment pass. "Your son was a Death Eater," I said.

The burst of temper was gone as quick as it had come. All of a sudden, he was cautious.

"I wouldn't know anything about that. I was as shocked as anyone when he turned up dead, and they later discovered he'd died involved in some unpleasant affairs."

"I'm sure," I said surlily. I was sweating again. The cooling charm had worn off. The sweltering air coming inside didn't become any cooler with the drink in me either.

A many-coloured butterfly swayed through the open doors, settling on the desk like a sparkling gem.

Naturally, he was lying. It was totally unbelievable that he hadn't known what his son was doing. I knew that, and he knew that I knew, but he also knew that if he didn't come out and flat out told me that, there was nothing I could do.

His hand came down crashing, crushing the butterfly.

"Bloody insect."

Suddenly, his hand clenched around the edge of the desk. A vein throbbed and his eyes widened until there seemingly was more white than there could possibly be. He started to cough painfully again. It sounded like there was something inside him trying to get out. Abrupt spasms shook him and he fell forwards out of his chair. His legs didn't carry his weight and gave way. He crawled on the ground like a beetle, twitching uncontrollably, flailing his arms, unable to rise again by himself.

I jumped up, in order to help him, although truthfully, I had no idea what I should or could do in his fit.

"Tilly!" he croaked.

There was a popping noise at once. The eyes of the House Elf grew to impossible sizes as it noticed Greengrass' state.

"Master Greengrass," it wailed. "Oh no, oh no. Tilly will get Mrs. Steven-"

"No! Not that damn – I – argh – "

He convulsed and was coughing his lungs out, grabbing blindly into the air.

The House Elf looked at him, then snapped its fingers and another vial appeared. With trembling arms, it handed it to Sterling Greengrass. He spilled half of it, the rest he somehow got down his throat, but apparently it did the trick, as his coughing stopped.

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

"Oh no," the House Elf moaned again. "Poor Master Greengrass. He will need rest. Tilly will bring him to bed."

It snapped its fingers again and floated the man out of the room.

I stared after the fatally ill man. Two-thirds dead, unable to move by himself, his body was falling apart. And yet he had preserved his nastiness. Perhaps it was all he had left.

My eyes moved from the door to the smear of the butterfly on the polished table board, and further through the study. I was alone. I quickly walked over to the fireplace. Bending down, I scooped up the flakes of ash and put them into my pocket. Just when I was straightening myself again, the elf returned.

"Master Greengrass will not be able to speak to yous more."

"That's alright," I said. "If I have more questions, I'll come back later."

It looked like that wasn't what it'd meant, but it didn't respond. Instead it said, "Mistress Daphne Bletchley would like to see yous, before yous be leaving."

"What does she want to see me about?"

The huge eyes peered up at me.

"Tilly wouldn't know, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir."

"Well, who told her anything about my visit?"

"The windows is looking out front. She saw yous go in. Tilly had to tell her who yous were."

I frowned at the House Elf.

"I don't like that."

It said nothing, only curtsying politely. I stared at it for another moment, then gave in with a sigh and followed it out of the study.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

–––**CHAPTER 2–––**

**T**HIS ROOM was too big, the ceiling was too high, the doors were too tall, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow. There was a full-length mirror and shelves with books and cut-glass items, goblets or vases or some such. The ivory-decked furniture looked surprisingly modern, as opposed to the rest of the house; all metal and shiny, directly out of a catalogue. The windows stared over the gravel path, towards the flat chalk hills of the downlands. Sunlight streamed inside from the corridor, sparkling in the crystal and blinking on the metal and blinding white on the carpet.

There was taste in it, I supposed, but it was a rather cool and impersonal one – and it fitted the sole occupant of the room perfectly.

I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Snow White in her glass coffin. So this was Mrs. Bletchley, nee Greengrass. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at. Below her snow-white robes, they were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond, the creamy, flawless skin an attractive shade of pale complexion against the white.

The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp. The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim. She was tall and rangy and strong-looking. Her head was against an ivory satin cushion; her slightly wavy hair a rich, glossy chestnut brown, contrasting nicely with the dress and her fair skin, and she had the stormy grey eyes of the portrait in the hall.

The most striking feature of her face was the cheek line, high, prominent cheekbones creating a lineament beautiful enough for a poem; the distinctive contour, instead of smoothed over as many would have done, accentuated with expertly done make-up: darker shade beneath the bone, blended perfectly, and a little blush on the apples of her cheeks, highlighting the rare facial structure; a hint of blue-grey eye shadow, turning black towards her lashes; her lips cherry red and full, with a sulky droop to her lower lip and a slight, amused smile on them.

It was this kind of smile that constantly had a light mocking edge, secretly making fun of you. For staring. For the thoughts she knew you had. For imagining, because you couldn't help it.

She was perfect, and utterly unattainable.

o ] [ o

She had a shimmering satin matinee glove on her left hand and in her right a drink, acid green. She took a swallow from it and gave me a cool level stare over the rim of the glass.

"So you've become an Auror," she said. "I never figured you as the type to work for the Ministry, but after all your _legendary_ deeds, becoming an Auror makes sense, I suppose."

There was nothing in that for me, so I let it drift with the current. She put her glass down on the flat arm of the chaise longue and flashed an emerald and touched her hair. She said slowly: "Why are you here?"

I sent a blithe smile her way. "Because you wanted to see me."

The stare continued to fixate me and examine me and she was waiting for me to elaborate. I waited for her to ask what she really meant to ask. The silence stretched.

Finally, she made an impatient little noise.

"You knew Miles Bletchley?"

"Uh-huh. You're married to him."

She shot me a look that clearly doubted my intelligence.

"I was. It didn't work out."

"That's a nice way of saying he died."

Now, she was becoming irritated.

"Yes, he died. It was a natural death. You know that. Or do you?"

"I heard something like that."

"You're not much of a talker, are you, Mr. Potter? So what are you doing here if you knew that?"

I stared at her politely through a pause. "Why would you assume that's why I'm here?"

"Oh, I entirely expected a visit of your kind. After those impudent smears the papers dared to print, it was only a matter of time." She looked at me smoothly across her glass again, emptied it, and called: "Bessy!" A House Elf appeared with an almost soundless _pop_, a different one, not the one that had led me here. It appeared younger, with bright green eyes and something that looked like a tattered floor cloth around it. Mrs. Bletchley waved the empty glass at it, and it snapped its fingers, procuring a new drink, and handed it to her and vanished again, without a word, without a glance at me.

When the House Elf was gone, Mrs. Bletchley sighed and said: "Pure blood just isn't venerated as much as it ought to. It's a crime, really. When Granddad was still young, none of _you_ would've dared setting a foot in here." She tapped her polished nails on the glass impatiently. "Well, what do you need to know then?"

"How and when did he die?"

"You don't know?"

I sent another blithe smile her way with my head tilted. She flushed. Her stormy grey eyes looked mad. "I don't see what there is to be cagey about," she snapped. "And I don't like your manners."

"I don't care for yours," I said. "I didn't ask to see you. You sent for me. Now you're drinking your lunch, and I don't mind, really, I've done that. I don't mind you flashing your rings at me, and I don't mind you flashing your legs at me. They are exquisite, wouldn't mind becoming better acquainted. I don't mind that you don't like my manners. They can be pretty bad. I sometimes wonder about them, usually when I'm in the loo. But don't waste your time trying to cross-examine me."

She slammed her glass down so hard that it slopped over on the ivory cushion. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up with her eyes sparking fire and her nostrils wide. Her knuckles were white.

"People don't talk like that to me," she said thickly.

I sat there and smiled at her. Very slowly she closed her mouth and looked down at the spilled liquor. She sat down on the edge of the chaise-longue and cupped her chin in one hand.

"I ought to march to the Ministry and ruin your life so thoroughly you'd ten years from now still be living with the hags on Knockturn Alley. I really ought to."

I leant back in my chair and folded my legs. I looked at her and waited.

"I loathe masterful men," she said. "I simply loathe them."

"Just what is it you're afraid of, Mrs. Bletchley?"

Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed until they seemed to be only slits. Her nostrils looked pinched.

"That wasn't what you came here to investigate at all," she said in a strained voice that still had shreds of anger clinging to it. "About Miles. Was it?"

"Should I investigate it?"

She flared up again. "Get out! Damn you, get out!"

I stood up. "Sit down!" she snapped. I sat down. I flicked a finger at my palm and waited.

"Please," she said finally. "I'm worried for Granddad. It's been four years since Miles' untimely death. Then suddenly those stupid articles. It upset Granddad terribly. He liked Miles quite a bit and took his death very badly. You know he's ill. It was after this that his condition worsened. So please, leave him alone – you saw how he ended up today."

That didn't work either. I nodded and said: "I heard about the rumours. So you didn't kill him?"

"I had hopes that you would be in possession of a brain and have an idea how to use it, Mr. Potter," she said bitingly.

"Oh, I totally agree," I said. "I hope that every morning at five to eight. But then the Floo Travel is already over, and I'm at the Ministry."

A faint smile showed on her lips.

"Now that was actually witty. So you can be funny, if you're not sarcastic or vulgar and hiding behind crude humour. But yes –" she waved her left, gloved hand "– Miles and I married the traditional way, which includes the Vow of Integrity. You may have heard of it." Her voice was mildly condescending, as though she didn't expect me to. "Granddad watched us exchange the vows, and so did my sister and two hundred other guests. One should assume that these are enough witnesses."

"Actually, I have heard about it," I said. "The vow, I mean. Wasn't it created during the 16th century? To prevent spouses from rivalling wizarding families from killing each other for some gain or another? How does it work?"

"I have no idea how it works, Mr. Potter, and I don't particularly care either. The fact is, it does work, and so any insinuation from third parties as to what my intentions may have been or what I did to him are not only utterly laughable, but also serve to display the inferior intellect of the accuser."

"Well, who would display such deplorable lack of intellect?"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say. The tension left her body. Then she smiled at me winningly. "You didn't know then." Her voice was almost gleeful, as if she had outsmarted me. Maybe she had.

"I knew about your deceased husband, yes. That's not why I was here. Is that what you've been trying to get me to say?"

"I'm sure I don't care what you say."

I stood up again. "Then I'll be running along." She didn't speak. I went over to the tall white door I had come in at. When I looked back she had her lip between her teeth, biting it lightly.

I went out, down the tile staircase to the hall, and the House Elf – Tilly, not Bessy – appeared out of somewhere with my hat in its hand. I put it on while it opened the front door for me.

"You made a mistake," I said. "Mrs. Bletchley didn't want to see me."

It curtsied again, politely, and squeaked: "I'm sorry, Mister Auror Harry Potter sir. Tilly makes many mistakes. She punishes herself all the time. She shall do so now." It closed the door against my back.

I stood on the step taking a deep breath and looking down the succession of terraces with flowerbeds and trimmed trees along the gently sloping hillside to the high iron fence with gilt spears that hemmed in the estate. All kept neatly in order by House Elves, no doubt. The gravel pathway dropped down between low retaining walls – natural stone, granite, perhaps – to the open iron gates. Beyond the fence the hill sloped into the green valley I'd come through. I could see for a few miles from up here, and it looked rather idyllic.

Another contrast to the inhabitants of Greengrass Hall, then.

Then again, she did have nice legs. I would say that much for her. And seeing her with her eyes sparking like lightning in a thunderstorm was something quite beautiful in its own right. I walked down a narrow brick path from terrace to terrace, followed along inside the fence and so out of the gates to beyond the wards, where I could Apparate.

A massive bank of clouds was gathering by now on the western horizon, above the chalk hills. The sky was pitch-black there. I wiped my face again and applied a new cooling charm, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Yes, there definitely would be a tempest today.

I had always loved lightning.

o ] [ o

I returned to Auror Headquarters. We didn't have actual offices, rather the large, open area was divided into cubicles. People leant over the walls to talk, and so the room was constantly buzzing with conversations. Those who preferred silence put silencing charms on their cubicle, although it annoyed Robards, because he had to write a memo or come over himself instead of simply bellowing a name if he wanted something.

I crossed the open hardwood floor directly behind the oak doors leading into Headquarters and was stopped after three steps by a voice calling my name. It sounded a little like someone had just swallowed a goblet of Skele-Gro.

"Potter."

Well, speak of the devil. I stopped and turned around.

Gawain Robards, Head Auror. Glaring red robes, a fashionable and meticulously arranged ponytail (I was sure he spent half an hour in front of the mirror every morning), not entirely incompetent, but first and foremost a pompous dick.

"No longer bored, I trust?"

Oh, and he didn't particularly like me. Which was entirely mutual.

"Thoroughly entertained, sir. Did you know that Greengrass doesn't like you? We had a good laugh about it."

He shot me an irate look and growled something.

"I'm sorry?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Don't get smart with me, Potter. That report better be on my table by the end of this week."

He turned and marched down the floor.

"And if you're bored and out of work again, there's plenty more where it came from," he snapped over his shoulder.

I didn't doubt that at all, but I hadn't been bored because I was _out_ of work, but because _of_ the work. Although he couldn't have been talking about more screening cases. Now, almost four years after the war, that was coming to a close. Greengrass had been left for one of the last, if not the last, as no one had wanted to take it on, fearing to draw the ire of the notoriously choleric old man.

Which was as good a description as any for the state of things in the Ministry.

My cubicle was cramped, with a desk with built in drawers taking up nearly half the space in it, and leaving you with the other half to sit in front of it. It was notoriously untidy, I simply couldn't be bothered to tidy it up – I knew where most things were. Most of the time.

There _were_ a few stacks of folders and papers and old wrappers of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and a _Daily Prophet_ with the Quidditch results from a year ago and some other things I had no clue of, but you could see the brown table top. In one place, anyway.

On the highest stack, someone had thrown a yellowish brown folder. It bore the name _Greengrass_. I gave it a good scowl and for good measure did the same to the picture of Robards on the wall. I'd stuck a few paper clippings there, reports of the trials of Malfoy and Lestrange, and the interview with Robards. Had to know your enemies and all that.

Plus, the picture looked worse for the wear, with his left half of his face blasted off, and I had put a notice-me-not-charm on it.

The last article came with the caption _"Screening: The Story of Success"_

It gave a brief summary of the general idea - it had been introduced by Kingsley, pretty soon after his appointment as the Minister of Magic. The idea had merits. Remembering what had happened the last time after Voldemort's fall, he'd written up the _Death Eater Prosecution Act_, which should allow Aurors to question and screen anyone they thought suspicious, by any means, without any reservation.

Of course, that was the theory.

In practice it turned out that Kingsley was unable to follow through with these drastic measures. The days of Fudge were past. Citing his example, the high-ranking Ministry officials that had remained after weeding out Voldemort's puppets refused to concede that much power again. In the end, the only circumstances under which they had agreed on Kingsley as the Minister at all was the empowering of the department heads. Action now could only be taken and bills only passed if a majority of them agreed to it.

While again good in theory, it meant that the Minister lost almost all of his influence – as long as he didn't pander to the old families, purebloods, the elite, since as in any good society that prided itself in its _égalité_, the top executive positions that didn't get elected were firmly in the hands of purebloods. Considering that, and the people likely to be suspects and questioned for involvement in Voldemort's reign of terror on the other hand, their answer to Kingsley's proposal was as obvious as it was predictable.

That was something the article didn't mention.

They had been up in arms against general suspicion, as they called it. They wouldn't be questioned under Veritaserum. There wouldn't be surprise-visits. No one would be forced to admit something he didn't want to. The short of it was that the rounding-up of Death Eaters lost its momentum after the Ministry was re-established, never gained it back, and a good idea died a miserable PR-death. As a compromise, they increased the manpower, so an entire sub-division of Aurors was given the task and not the means.

But that paper praised it as a _"wise and consequent"_ move of the Minister, euphorically celebrating the fancy name of "Taskforce for tracking and convicting former Death Eaters" it was given, and rested _"… safe in the knowledge that the Ministry was doing its job, and no Death Eaters would live amongst them."_

Quote Malcom Avery. Currently valued senior writer in the department of politics and deputy editor of the Daily Prophet.

I scowled at the brown folder on my desk with Greengrass' name on it. The picture was lying askew on top of it. Sterling Greengrass was a Grade II, which meant suspicion by affiliation – which, quite frankly, I could understand being angry about. If one member of your family had been a confirmed Death Eater, as had been Nathan Greengrass in this case, his son, you'd tell off anyone who came their way and pointed out that therefore, you'd be more suspect than others, too. Even if it was true. It was the general idea behind it, of looking at you not as an individual, but as member of a group.

Perhaps that was the only practical way to do this type of Auror work, you had to start somewhere with your investigations, after all. But on some days, it left a bitter taste.

Today was such a day.

o ] [ o

I composed the report. It was a short report.

_Suspicion: Grade II_

_Result: Cleared, without any qualification_

_Further notes:_

_Suspect interrogated on Monday, August 15__th__ 20… Exonerated due to severe illness, which made any participation in Death Eater activities impossible. Knows nothing about the actions of one Nathan Greengrass and the circumstances of his death. Suggested further course of action: none._

_Signed:_

My quill hovered above the sheet, ready to sign it and then shelve it. It was a neat, clean job. No one would fault me. Quite the contrary, I'd be fine, people would congratulate me for having done the job quick and without bringing Greengrass' ire down onto the Ministry.

It would be a tedious, thankless task to prove anything else. It wasn't even worth the effort. If I could somehow prove that he had known about his son or any other Death Eater and not told the Ministry, which _was_ punishable, for a matter of fact, he'd get away with nothing more than a fine. Someone would see to it, even if there was up to five years Azkaban for that.

More interesting were the names I'd possibly dig up, by poking my nose deeper in his affairs. It'd be the chance to review the war, perhaps for the last time ever. Beyond sentencing the obvious culprits, the two years of Voldemort's reign were one big cold case. There were smaller and bigger crimes, people who had profited unjustly and others who had suffered undeservedly, but it all had been left behind only too readily, pretended that it had never happened and everyone had but slept and had a bad dream.

Yet I'd be hampered and get spanners thrown in my work at every turn, become hugely unpopular, probably get to see more of Robards than I liked, and, in the end, most likely kicked out of the Ministry for my troubles. No one would want to hear what I dug up. And it wasn't even certain there _was_ something to prove. It was perfectly possible that they were clean.

I snorted mentally.

Well, not exactly clean, then, but not entangled into Death Eater activities more than your average pureblood family. I had only my instinct that told me something was there, in Greengrass senior's and Mrs. Bletchley's strange behaviour.

I stared at the photo of the Greengrasses. Then at my own writing. The shiny surface. Just pretence, no substance.

I could let it rest. Continue to do my work, be bored everyday and hate Robards; some days more, other days less. Or I could take it on and for once get to the bottom of a case, with the ultimate _fuck you_ to Robards and his just-don't-look-too-hard-policy. Without giving a shit, I had nothing to lose. Burn all the bridges behind me, and go down in a blaze of glory.

It'd be the end of my career in the Ministry, certainly.

Picture-Daphne winked and blew me a kiss.

Although truthfully, I'd played already with the thought of resigning a few times. Staring at that grainy brown parchment on my desk (I couldn't count the months I'd spent reading and in dusty ministry archives) now made that resolve only stronger. This wasn't what I wanted out of life. I hadn't yet found the right thing, but I was sure that this was not it.

I sighed. Daphne now had the faint, mocking smile that did those nice things to her lips.

All by itself, my left hand crumpled up the already written report and threw it into the bin besides my desk.

* * *

**Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**–––CHAPTER 3–––**

**I** LEANT back in my chair and stretched my arms. Now that I'd decided to continue with the investigation, I felt oddly elated. I hadn't been this excited in years. There was the thrill of the beginning of a chase, the tingling in the stomach that was largely due to the feel in your gut that _something was there_, and the satisfaction of working again – and not on files in dusty archives.

Something was there. The feeling could be wrong, but usually it wasn't. And as things looked now, I thought I might have a lot of fun finding out what.

I spent the next hour going through Nathan and Belinda Greengrass' files, but there wasn't anything in there I didn't know already. Both had been followers of Voldemort, even though only Nathan Greengrass had been marked. The file concluded that yes, they'd obviously been Death Eaters, and yes, both were dead, so that was that. It was shoddy, unsatisfying work. Half a sentence on what they'd done that got them killed, nothing whatsoever on what they'd done for Voldemort before that, when they had joined, if they had been members already the first time around, what their standing had been in Voldemort's ranks.

It was exactly the kind of report currently in my trash bin.

I even looked at both Bletchleys' files. They hadn't a record with the Aurors, only the standard one from the Census Office. When I carried them back into the Auror office, after having them bargained out of a surly Mrs. Witherspoon that would give Madam Pince a run for her money, I met Pat O'Rourke with a coffee pot in his hand. Pat was large, Irish, friendly and more than thirty years my senior, but not my superior. Which explained his first three traits. Or well, perhaps the second and third one. We worked together on occasion, and I'd gotten to know him a little. He was a pureblood, lived alone and had always wrinkly robes on. He said it was because he was rubbish at the Ironing Charm.

He frowned as he saw the files.

"You investigating Bletchley's death?"

"No, I'm not."

He looked at me sceptically.

"Well, you don't have to tell me, I guess."

"I'm really not," I said. "I'm screening the Greengrasses. Sterling's granddaughter is filed under Bletchley, since she married."

Pat still looked sceptical.

"She was what back then, seventeen? That's a bit young to be working for You-Know-Who, don't you think?"

"Malfoy junior was sixteen, Pat. Anyway, that's why it's called screening, you know? If you knew what you were looking for, you wouldn't need it."

He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Harry. Great that you figured that one out. Have fun, then."

I laughed and went back to my desk.

Daphne Greengrass had finished school in my year – or what would've been my year, had I been at school at that time. I only vaguely recalled her from the time before then. She hadn't been very noticeable. Quiet, most times found in Parkinson's clique, I thought, but I had never cared. Her marks were exceptional, though.

I took the sheet with the stylised H and the four animals in the crest on the top of the page from the slim folder. Her Hogwarts certificate, signed by Headmaster Severus Snape, showed no NEWT in Transfiguration, but Outstandings in Potions and Charms and Muggle Studies. Alecto Carrow commended her 'exemplary understanding of the superiority of the wizarding race'. Examiners from the Ministry noted her excellence with complex charmwork and her knowledge of unusual potions. With recommendations like that, she could have started almost anywhere, anytime, and have a great career ahead. But only four months later, another certificate showed the marriage to Miles Bletchley. She had practically been married right out of school.

Her father had arranged it, half a year before he died. Miles Bletchley in turn had died at the age of sixty-three; the noted death was sudden heart failure. He had been the last Bletchley of his family branch, there were other Bletchley's around, but they were some remote cousins. He probably had been looking for someone to entertain him, and made the marriage deal with Nathan Greengrass regarding his daughter in exchange for some money. That was the way it usually worked.

From that moment on up to the point where Daphne Bletchley's status was noted as 'widowed' and Miles Bletchley's as 'deceased', ten months later, and a week after I had killed Voldemort, there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. I stared at the two pages and wondered what was lying in between. What had her marriage been like? Had she liked him? Despised him? How had her life been, then?

Daphne Bletchley, the faithful housewife, a content trophy and source of entertainment to the forty years older Bletchley? That really clashed with my image of her. Even if it was for less than a year.

The records showed me nothing of all that. It was time to do something else. I threw the gum wrappers into the bin and pushed the files aside, combining two stacks of papers into one that now teetered precariously, to clear some space. Then I emptied the contents of Sterling Greengrass' fireplace, which I'd carried in my pocket, onto the desk.

That had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, it had seemed a little odd, that was all – it was summer, the study with the open doors was warm if not hot, so there wasn't any need for fires. And I doubted the House Elves would leave ashes lying in there from the winter or whenever it had been used the last time.

It hadn't looked like it had been used recently, anyway. The mantel had been clean, not sooty.

So that was the reason I now had a small pile of ash on my desk. For that matter, it wasn't so much ash than badly burned paper – many bits had remained, yellowed from the heat of the fire, yet enough so that any things that might have been written on it were lost. I squinted at it. For all intents and purposes, it was something, and that something had been destroyed. I needed it repaired. I pulled out my holly wand, pointed it at the mess on my desk and said: "Reparo."

The pieces didn't rearrange themselves back into a piece of paper.

Sighing, I resigned myself to look up other, better restoring spells. I conjured a plain wooden box and pushed the heap into it when I paused, astounded. There were now lines on it. I carefully levitated another piece, about as large as a small fingernail. It had some ink on it that looked like a part of a picture. It seemed like the writing had been restored, but not the piece of paper. So the spell had worked partly, at least. Groaning mentally, I realised the result: I now had a puzzle.

I hated puzzles.

I was still staring at the pieces, getting more and more annoyed, when Robards suddenly poked his head in, wearing a sodden cloak and hat, both black. He usually ate lunch out.

"How's the work coming, Potter?"

"Excellent, sir. You're dripping all over it. How's the weather outside?"

He gave me a death glare and marched on to his office, leaving a wet trail behind. Well, at least he'd earn enough to buy a rain-proof cloak. I didn't need one. Standing up, I called over to Pat. His red head rose over the rim of the white separation wall.

"Hey, Pat. Do you know where Bletchley lived?"

"Had a house in Mayfair, I suppose."

I whistled. Pat shrugged. "Pureblood family, not as old as others, but filthy rich. Sure you aren't looking into his death?"

"Yes, still. Whose would it be now, you think? Who was the heir?"

"His wife's, I'd say. He had no close relatives I know of, and if the papers are right, she inherited all his money as well."

I furrowed my brows.

"Then how come she doesn't live there?"

"I have no clue, Harry. Ask her if you want to know."

I shrugged as well.

"Maybe I'll do that later. You have the address?"

Pat looked at me oddly.

"What on earth do you want there? You won't get in. It's warded, just like your house."

"Just look around a little. I dunno. Do you know where it is or not?"

He shrugged again and gave me a street name.

o ] [ o

I reappeared in quite a lot of green. A lot of _wet_ green – there was a sudden cracking noise above my head, like the crack of a whip; the thunderstorm was directly over London, and it was pouring with rain.

The storm that the clouds had heralded this morning had finally broken. Fat raindrops crashed onto me, dripping down from the sodden leaves of the old plane trees I stood under, on a deserted oval-shaped green. No one was out in this weather that didn't have to be. As if to punctuate that, lightning branched out across the black clouds. Thunder rumbled again. More rain fell. I renewed my Impervius Charm. Then I took a look around.

There were very symmetric sand paths, which now had puddles on them. One path followed the oval shape of the little park, and two crossed it, diving it in four exactly equal areas. Someone had been anal retentive. There were a lot of empty benches, and a black iron fence hemmed the area.

Beyond it, typical Georgian-style houses, plain but well-kept façades and very symmetrical as well, lined the square. I saw a few shops, a restaurant. I crossed the street and walked through the rain, maybe half a mile following the directions I'd been given by Pat, past more beautiful restored houses in red and dark grey and white. The water splashed around my feet. I could've Apparated right in front of the Bletchley's house, I guess, but I didn't want to tip anyone off.

If anyone was there, that was.

I turned right, into a quiet cul-de-sac, slowing down in my steps. I took in my surroundings. There was a little bar, but no one was out here either. Not even a cat or something showed its face. I was in central London, and I was alone.

In the side street, the houses were not as immaculately kept as on the main roads. They looked their age, with old, weathered brickstones and the odd wet spot, grey from the rain. I found the right house immediately. It wasn't all that hard, admittedly, because it stood out like a sore thumb; the only one of the bunch looking like the houses on the main street, pristine, as if it had been built just yesterday. Magic had kept it good nick.

It had the same, typical Georgian architecture, in red brickstone. The front door was green and panelled. It was adorned with silver metal fittings, and capped by an elaborate entablature, but that was the only remarkable thing. The door was in the centre of the house, with a sash window on either side, three panes across and two up. The three following floors had three windows each. A strictly symmetrical architecture. It made you want to punch a hole in the wall, just to give it an air of _something_.

I tried getting closer to the door, but was rebuffed, unable to even touch it. The wards were indeed still active. This was the Bletchley home alright. Nothing moved inside.

I stared at the still house with the green door, wondering why I'd come here. What had I expected? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that I was here, I felt a little foolish. And still, there was the feeling again; something told me to wait … and this was as good a place to set the paper snippets together as any, so what the hell. I pitched my camp in a doorway across the narrow street, and a little further up, casting a notice-me-not charm on myself.

And then, I waited.

A broken gutter above my head made the rain fall from the eaves, cascade-like, and the water was forming a little puddle in front of my feet. I'd brought the wooden chest with me and opened the lid, and started my puzzle. The largest pieces were placed on the inside of the lid. I applied sticking charms on the pieces to keep them there, moved them around, put them back down and then others up. It was every bit as arduous a task as I'd expected. Slowly, some printed letters appeared on the lid. It looked a piece from a paper. The _Daily Prophet_?

The rain continued to drum on the roofs, occasionally accompanied by growling thunder and flashes of lightning. The puddle before my feet grew. Every now and then, I looked up.

The water ran in a small runnel along the kerb, down the slightly sloping street. The grey pavement had a glimmering sheen, in the yellow light of the old cast iron street lamp on the other side. A bin lorry backed into the street. I watched the dustmen doing their job, their eyes always skipping the green door, and continued my puzzle. It was going towards the evening. I was getting hungry.

She arrived five minutes later.

Steps sounded on the wet pavement. It was a woman, I could tell; the sharp clicks of her heels were slightly muffled by the drumming rain, but audible. She wore a dark red cape. The rain parted for her. She wasn't tall.

Her hair was tucked away beneath a hood, but I would've bet that … it _was_ Astoria Greengrass. I was sure. She stood in front of the Bletchley home, where I had stood. She never looked around. I watched her. She flicked her wand. The silver-fitted door clicked open. She went inside.

Apparently, Miles Bletchley had allowed her access. Interesting. I puzzled on and renewed the water repelling charm again. I wondered what exactly the relationship between Bletchley and his sister-in-law had been. Had every Greengrass been granted standing access? Somehow, that didn't strike me as right. Purebloods usually were notoriously untrusting. At least in my experience.

She was back ten minutes later, with a small brown package under the arm. She stepped out, closing the door carefully behind her. I caught a look at her face, ascertaining that it was indeed the youngest Greengrass.

Then she Disapparated.

I sighed and packed up. Apparition tracking was beyond my skill. Not for nothing did the Law Enforcement Department have specialists for that. I'd known I'd lose anyone I'd meet before I even started the observation. Still, I wouldn't complain. At least it hadn't been a complete waste of time. On the other hand, I now had more questions. What would cause her to take something out of the house, and today? Where had she put it? And what was in the brown package?

No answers that weren't pure speculations were forthcoming. I cast a final glance onto my paper puzzle. It looked indeed like a small part of a _Daily Prophet_. The headline, or what I assumed was the headline, now read Y…-…ho'…G…. The rest was even worse, half bits of letters every now and then. I was sick and tired of puzzling for the day. At that rate, I'd read the article in a year – if ever, as I wasn't sure all the parts where there. It didn't look like it. Was a paper article even a lead?

I scowled at the chest.

Then I got an idea. The _Daily Prophet_? It was worth a try.

I tucked the brown chest away and Disapparated.

o ] [ o

With the rest of a take-away meat pie in hand, I strode down Diagon Alley. Few wizards and witches were underway in this weather, but passing by the white marble front of Gringotts, I spotted a dark red cape. A few strands of gold blond hair were diligently tucked under the hood, before she walked down the steps of the bank she was just leaving, out into the rain, and Disapparated. The brown package was missing.

I stared at the now vacant space, thoughtfully. That had been lucky. Ten minutes between our encounters, not a whole lot of time to do something with a package. Gringotts had nice vaults. I felt like I now had a good idea about one of my former questions. Cheerily, I ate the last piece of my pie and whistled an entirely unmelodious tune as I continued to walk down the shopping street, until I reached the building where the Daily Prophet had its office.

It was a big shoebox with a glitzy, five-storey front that didn't fit at all with the rest of the charming old timber-framed stores. Brightly flashing letters screamed THE DAILY PROPHET – or they should have, at any rate. Someone had charmed the last word on the giant sign, and it now read PROFIT.

I repressed the urge to laugh, and went through the glass door.

In the entrance corridor, the latest issues of the paper were displayed, reaching a week or so back. I stopped dead in my tracks as I passed two consecutive copies, one with the lead story _Daphne Bletchley: Mourning Widow Or …?_ and the other with _The REAL death of Miles Bletchley_.

Well, at least that explained her initial reaction to my visit. I hadn't known, as I'd stopped bothering with the _Prophet_. I had no subscription, I only bought the odd copy every now and then to get the Quidditch results. And as it seemed, there wasn't any reason to change that any time soon – if Mrs. Bletchley indeed had used the old vow, all the _Prophet_ had managed was yet another, very poor, attempt at cooking up a supposedly sensational story.

That, however, wasn't something I'd tell the very pretty clerk at the desk in the office I now entered. She looked twenty-ish, strawberry-blonde hair tied into a business-like bun, a cute face and very stylish glasses. She was busy working herself through a series of paperwork that needed signing, if the two stacks on either side of her were any indication. I was about to clear my throat, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

"Welcome to the _Daily Prophet_," she chirped, without looking up. Either there was a notice-me-charm, or she had perfected the art of feeling when someone stood in front of her. "What can I do for – oh my, _Mr. Potter_!"

She jumped up so quickly that she almost pushed over the coffee on her table.

"Mr. Potter, it's an honour to have you here." She stretched her hand out, and I shook it. She had a very soft grip. "I'm Claire Beckinson. Whatever your wish is, I'm sure we can get it done."

That sounded like a nice start. I explained my problem.

"So you're looking simply for an article?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem at all. Which date?"

"I don't know."

"Oh."

Her face fell, but it took only moments to become determined.

"We'll get this, Mr. Potter," she said resolutely. "It might take a bit of time, but I'll figure it out."

What do you know, an employee who took pride in her work. I'd poked it, and now it was personal for her – she wouldn't let it rest until it was done. I knew the type. I could've kissed her.

Instead, I sent her a bright smile.

"I'm sure you will. I have all the trust in your competence."

She blushed.

"Well, let's see what you've got, then."

I quirked an eyebrow, creating the meaning that was never there.

"Moving quite fast, aren't you? I mean, not that I mind or whatever, but you've known me for all of five minutes …"

"Oh no! Mr. Potter, I didn't mean – I mean, not like _that_ – I –"

The poor thing was completely flustered. I drew up a quick glass of Firewhisky and handed it to her.

"Here."

She gulped it down and started to cough, which gave me an excuse to pat her back. Success.

"Better?" I asked concernedly.

She nodded and started to apologise, but I waved her off.

"Quite alright, Claire – may I call you Claire?"

She nodded and blushed again, though not as much, because her work enthusiasm was taking over as I showed her the wooden box. Her forehead crumpled into a cute frown as she peered at my torn and yellowed bits of paper and ash.

"Y…-…ho'…G…," she spelled out. She made to take the box. "May I?"

I nodded. "Sure."

She placed it on her desk and grabbed her wand from beside a sheet of paper with a colourful quill that was swishing back and forth, copying something. With a small twirl, she conjured a large, old-fashioned reading glass and bent over the chest, studying the bits and pieces.

"That's definitely from us, and a headline, yes. It's a two-columned article, because of the piece of frame on the right, here, see?"

Her little finger, many times larger from my angle through the reading glass, pointed at something I had thought was dirt.

"And that, together with the size of the headline, means it's a smaller article, somewhere before the middle of the paper, and not on the top of the page either. Page four to ten, if I had to guess. Not further back, because then we have the business and society section, and they come with their own title stories and a different layout."

She took a breath and snatched a piece of paper from her desk and drew the letters, in the same size as they were in the paper bits, but filling in the gaps, as she spoke.

"And the headline … well, given the length of the gaps and the places of the hyphen and apostrophe, it could very well mean _'You-Know-Who's'_. That was very common in headlines after his fall, you know? There were lots of articles detailing his reign of terror, so that seems very likely. Unfortunately, that also means that the number of possible articles is quite high, as the last word – and it _is_ only one word, and a short one at that, otherwise it'd extend beyond the two columns – is anyone's guess. Giants? General? Greed? But at least we know that we're searching for a two-column article about You-Know-Who, not further back than page ten, most likely from the year after you killed him … or what do you think?"

She was looking at me hopefully. I was staring her open-mouthed.

"You," I said, "are entirely brilliant. That's what I think."

She ducked her head and fiddled with her piece of paper that neatly matched my letters, and didn't know where to look, so she looked down. I could look down her robes. She had a nice cleavage.

Eventually, Claire composed herself.

"I think that is all we'll get from that piece," she decided. "If you don't get more by puzzling, it's the archive."

I pulled a face. That was like Dragon Pox or Spattergroit.

"Well, let's see what we find," I said.

She put a "be right back" sign onto her desk and led me to a metal door with no handle and no lock. With a prodding from her wand, it opened, revealing a stairway down.

o ] [ o

The archive was cold, windowless, smelled funny and was uncomfortable enough to thoroughly quell all fantasies of having fun with the paper secretary between papers.

In the middle, I spotted a space with a desk, brightly illumed. All around were rows upon rows with stacks of papers, stretching into every direction, soon lost in the dark where the light extended no longer. It was impossible for me to gauge the size of the archive.

"It's indexed," she explained proudly. "You just point your wand at the desk like so –" she pressed the tip onto the tabletop "– say 'Accio You-Know-Who's' and you'll get any paper where that was a-aaaah-" She was drowned in fluttering flock of papers. I jumped away and ducked down as one whacked me over the head, but it was like a swarm of angry bees, impossible to evade. It flapped and rustled and crackled. The entire archive seemed in uproar, from here to far, far into the dark.

More and more came flying at her, thousands of them, from all sides, burying her head under them, on the desk. Muffled, I thought I heard her voice. Suddenly, the stream of papers reversed, and they zoomed away from the desk, back through the shelves and into stacks and into the darkness of the room where they had come from.

Eventually, her head emerged. She looked a bit dishevelled, but otherwise fine.

"That were _lots_ of papers," she said.

With a sinking feeling, I realised the implication of the attack of the swarm of papers.

"All that are possible places for the article?"

She shook her head vigorously.

"No! Remember what I said? It is most likely from the year directly after the war. We had a different layout before then. That was any paper ever with a caption that included 'You-Know-Who's'." She grimaced. "My mistake, let's try this again. Accio You-Know-Who's, year 1999, third and fourth quarter."

This time, the papers were far more behaved. Once they had settled, I had a neat little stack with perhaps a hundred papers on my desk.

"There," she said. "That's better, isn't it?"

"Fantastic," I said. "And you're sure it's in there?"

"There or in the next year's issues," she said brightly. "Now you only need to find it."

"Yes," I said. "Only that."

* * *

**Thanks for your reviews - appreciated them :)**


	4. Chapter 4

–––**CHAPTER 4–––**

**T**HE WEEK passed rather slowly.

I got chewed out by Robards on Tuesday after he got a firecall from Mrs. Bletchley whom he apparently heartily disliked and I didn't mind, I spent more time in the archive at the _Daily Prophet_ reading old papers without Claire and without luck and did mind, and I got stuck with the night shift on Wednesday and absolutely minded.

That was Robards' late response to the firecall.

The office was dark, with only the light on my desk on. Across from me Pat was snoring over a report about the BMR – the _Brigade for Muggleborn Rights_, a lobby group that some elements in the Ministry recently had tried to label 'subversive' –, and I contemplated ways to get back at Robards. That was when the fireplace flared green. The sudden glaring light woke Pat, and when someone called, he grumbled and walked over. A moment later, he called me there as well.

I saw a white-blue striped nightcap disappear between the flames, and Pat grumbled something about old codgers and their precious night's sleep. Apparently, Blotts had been woken by a commotion in front of his bookstore, and found it necessary to call the Aurors. Pat told me to follow, and flooed to Flourish & Blotts.

o ] [ o

Abraham Blotts was indeed in his nightwear.

In addition to his striped nightcap, he wore a white nightshirt that stretched over his round belly and was shorter than what I'd have liked. I distracted myself from his hairy legs by remembering Mrs. Bletchley's. Between his books in his store, under his flat, he gesticulated wildly and railed against hoodlums and good-for-nothing youths that really were all hooligans out to disturb his sleep. He fixated me with a stare from his beady eyes during the last part, and I shrugged and went to the shop door to investigate, leaving Blotts in Pat's company.

It was dark out on Diagon Alley; a few stars, the moon hidden behind clouds that were black on the night sky. Down the street, the Gringotts building shimmered ghostly white. A little light fell from the illumed shop window with a few books on display out into the street, but the yellow glow lost itself a few feet away.

I looked in the direction of the bank, where silhouettes moved. Someone was shouting. It echoed from the house walls. Then, sudden spellfire flashed through the nightly Diagon Alley. I wasted no time and sprinted towards the source. Ahead, at the junction of Knockturn Alley, a group of five or six girls stood, all carefully styled for a night out, dressed in revealing Muggle attire, which apparently was the current trend with young witches. Except that it was a Wednesday night, but I guess for them, weekdays and weekend were no difference. I recognised a few girls. Little princesses, the lot of them, but the star was, without doubt, Astoria Greengrass.

The pale light of a lone street lamp, a little into Knockturn Alley, shone on her skin and clothing, which was just skirting the line of looking totally trashy, even if I somehow didn't think she'd have minded. But it was carefully arranged, the purple ripped – well, I thought it was a t-shirt, but it was an entire batch of sizes too small, the neck was cut wide, leaving her left shoulder bare and pushing her cleavage out, and whatever glittery logo had once been on it was now unrecognisable, because of the pseudo-accidental tears that showed quite a bit of her midriff. It ended above a black miniskirt that entirely deserved its name, and that was the last piece of clothing, if you didn't count the stripes of glossy patent leather from her heels. Her toenails were the same colour as her shirt.

Well, at least she wasn't naked. That had to count for something. Then again, perhaps that was for later in the night.

She was advancing on a shady guy in a dirty grey cloak and a battered hat, while the other girls started to nervously teeter away from her.

"Did you call us something nasty, tramp?"

"Wha'? Yer completely nuts, yeh freak – yeh were the one who – _Stupefy!_"

His spell was swatted away like it was nothing. Perhaps it was. He didn't look very competent to me. Wide, dark pupils glittered in the light of the street lamp.

"I don't like you."

She was on her potions again. I suddenly had a bad feeling as to how that would play out. She lifted her wand.

"Stop!" I shouted, my own wand up.

A slash downwards, and deep gashes opened on his chest, the telltale sign of the Sectumsempra curse, right before he was flung ten feet backwards against the brick wall in a hail of other curses, all carefully aimed at his already open wounds, in cruel pinpoint accuracy. Laughter fell from her red lips, while she had him under her wand and he screamed and jerked around, impacting at the wall with a sickening crunching noise, just before I had finished thinking _Expelliarmus._

She'd never uttered a spell out loud either.

I caught her wand in my hand, she turned around, nimble footed, appearing a little annoyed. Then, a slow smile spread over her face.

"Harry Potter."

"Yes, yes, we've been there already, remember?"

I heard Pat's rapid steps from the bookstore.

"You have my wand," she pouted. Then she stretched out her hand and looked at me cutely. "May I, please?"

My eyes went over to Pat, who had reached the guy. He shook his head, then called over to me, "I'm going straight to St Mungo's with him. Take care of her." Then he Disapparated. I felt a headache coming on. Take care of her in what way? Arresting her? I couldn't just dump a child into a cell. But of course, she wasn't just a child, without bounds, like Greengrass had said, but a child without bounds, currently stuffed to the brim with potions, and with far, far more magical prowess than anyone could possibly be comfortable with. Effortless silent casting of powerful spells. Joy.

"You only almost succeeded in killing him," I said to her. "I wouldn't want you trying to do better next time."

A small frown furrowed her face, as she worked that one out. "I didn't like him," she finally said as if this explained everything.

Then she looked at me, and the smile was back. She took a step towards me and stumbled. I instinctively rushed ahead, to prevent her head from making acquaintance with the cobbles. She fell directly into my arms and went jelly-legged on me instantly. I had to hold her close to hold her up. I was perfectly able to feel all her curves. For that matter, I was certain that she wasn't wearing anything under her ripped top.

Just as certain as I was about the deliberation of her stumbling. She couldn't have been more obvious if she started rubbing herself against me.

The other girls watched us, or me, perhaps, nudging and giggling.

"Show's over," I said to them. "Your little leader goes with me."

They giggled some more and she pocketed her wand, which she of course had snatched away while I was tied up in catching her and holding her up.

"I like _you_," she purred in my ear, wrapping her arms around my waist tightly. I felt her breasts pressing against my chest. The thin fabric of her shirt did nothing to stop the nipples from poking through it.

"That's nice," I said. "How about we go home now?"

Getting answers out of her in that state was a waste of time. I Apparated the two of us away, back onto the gravel path in front of the iron gates of Greengrass Hall. The house was entirely dark, no lights on, resting silently inside the fenced gardens, sleeping peacefully in the middle of the night.

She took a step back, then peered up at me.

"But I don't wanna go home."

"I think –"

She giggled again. "Catch me."

And before I could do or say anything, she was gone, with a near silent _pop_.

I cursed all Greengrasses in general, which felt good, and her existence in particular, which felt even better. Then I tried to follow her. I found her at the first place I could think of without admitting to myself that I should have just dragged her home, stunned, and that she could be anywhere now – she was back at Diagon Alley, whatever for. It wasn't as if it was a hotspot for nightlife. I wasn't even sure there was something like that anywhere. At least not legally, that was. She seemed to be waiting for me just where we had stood a minute earlier, at the mouth of Knockturn Alley. The other girls were gone.

"We can go now," she said and looked pleased.

"Fantastic," I said. I grabbed her by her arm, and started to drag her away, when she said: "Activate."

o ] [ o

I crashed into the ground headfirst, while she made a dainty little hop. The little beast had tricked me into taking a Portkey with her. I was seriously getting fed up with insolent brats that tried to walk all – over me – with no panties on?

With my head resting on the cold paving, I had a perfect view up her legs, and she had evidently decided that tonight underwear was optional. Why was I even surprised. But shaved or no, it did little to quell my annoyance. Glaring at her I rose, brushing off the dust I had fallen into. She smiled brightly at me and sauntered across the bleak yard we had arrived on, in front of a large rundown concrete building.

Rusty metal frames ran along the wall and broken windows stared blindly into the darkness. The building stretched on sheer endlessly, far further than I could see, topped by a brick chimney that was just barely perceptible, rising like a broken finger up into the black sky. On the other side, I could just make out some kind of tanks and pipes running every which way in the dark, appearing like a filigree wire mesh.

A sole dirty neon light on the wall poured its too white shine over a patch of the cobbled yard and the building, showing broken paving and bent iron bars that once might have been a window frame or a gutter. Rain and time had dyed it rusty red. The light shivered a little as a gust of wind whistled through the abandoned buildings and tore at the lamp. The place was the definition of dreariness.

She vanished through a metal door below the lamp with flaking paint. The door fell shut with a hollow bang. It bore a sign that I couldn't read.

It was written in Cyrillic letters.

I stared at the door. I should go home. My shift was over. I didn't want to know what a sixteen year old girl in skimpy clothes stuffed with potions did in a rundown factory in Eastern Europe. I didn't want to enter a place I knew nothing about, but suspected its purpose, having heard more than enough tales in my line of work.

And most of all, I didn't want to feel responsible and hated the little voice that urged me to follow her and make sure she got home safely.

I kicked the bars, which clattered through the night, and swore.

"Harry Potter, the responsible adult, that's me."

At least Robards wouldn't be able to complain that I let the culprit out of view, as long they weren't fit to be questioned.

I strode across the yard and ripped open the door. Behind it was only darkness. Cautiously, I crossed the threshold. It was as though a veil had been lifted. The buzz of an ongoing party hit me like a wall – talk, laughter, clinking glasses, and everything accompanied by a thumping bass.

I was standing in some sort of lobby. The light was dimmed, young people milled about. An attractive redhead swayed past, with a teasing smile as she looked at me. It could have passed for a Muggle setting except for the obvious magic that was everywhere, in the multicoloured half-light without source, the room geometry that didn't at all fit with the outside, the charms that kept the noise and light inside.

Astoria was waiting for me next to the door, already with a champagne glass in hand, staring up at me from her cornflower blue eyes. The drink sparkled in the dim light like liquid gold. She put a hand on my arm. The touch was very light, almost hesitant. The light changed to a warm yellow colour, and for a moment she looked so small and young.

She gently turned me around, and I spotted a bar only a few feet away, occupying one side of the lobby. Suddenly, I was thirsty. I was halfway through getting out some sickles, when I stopped. Where the bloody hell had that impulse come from?

"Thirsty, Harry?"

There was laughter in her voice, and all illusions from only seconds ago were gone.

She flipped a few coins onto the counter. "Shampanskoye."

A small voice in my head told me my thirst was artificial, a spell designed to make people buy stuff, a variant of some compulsion charm, quite illegal. At least in Britain. I struggled against it, while the barkeep, a blunt-faced man with very short hair, handed her a second glass similar to hers. She put both on the edge of the counter. Her fingers played around her necklace, and with a final smile into my direction, they opened a small clasp on the pendant.

I scrambled towards her, but I wasn't nearly fast enough. She took the glass phial from around her neck and put a few drops into my champagne glass. Then she dumped the rest into hers, and I realised I had made a mistake. Closer to the bar the spell was even worse. I struggled against the desire to pick up the glass, but the urge was overwhelming. It was worse than walking through the Sahara and _finding that well_. Maybe I could've fought it. Maybe I should've blasted a hole into the bar.

Astoria giggled.

"Cheers, Harry."

Maybe I would have to have truly wanted to.

I grabbed the champagne glass and drank. It fizzed in my mouth, tasting sweet and alcoholic, and I felt it burning in my throat, but it didn't stop there. Suddenly I felt hot, almost breaking out into sweat.

She lifted her own glass and downed it. Her eyes flew open, fixating me, almost hungrily. A cat-like hiss escaped her and then she sighed in pleasure.

_Follow me._

She left, and a part of her remained; she was leaving traces of her behind her, like a glowing afterimage, before it snapped back together when she turned around.

_Aren't you coming?_

I moved, and my world exploded.

It was fractured into single dimensions of radiant colours that slowly bled into the surrounding space. I was desperately trying to piece reality back together, when I heard her giggle again. She grabbed my hand and dragged me onwards, towards a door.

I stumbled along, confused and disorientated. What had been a Muggle industrial ruin now was alive. The grey walls were rippling and moving and the grey was crawling away and over the rusty beams. At one moment, the colour was dripping from the walls, in the changing light – and the next, the door opened and a myriad of colours burst out, hitting me full force, magical colours which I was certain I heard and felt and smelled.

It was so _intense_, slowly echoing around, like a distorted sound, and when someone crossed our path, they echoed too, somehow, not all of them passed – a little lingered, again, or perhaps I did. Then I thought I saw the music, concentric circles of all colours of the rainbow, geometric patterns, painting the walls, all the while we descended a spiral staircase downwards without ever getting closer to the ground.

I shook my head and the strange image cleared; loud music pounded through the fabric hall that was one surging sea of people, dancing, fired up by the music. She dived in and dragged me with her, entering a surging blue sea, underwateresque feeling on my skin, and my hand slipped from her grasp.

I turned and saw the redhead from earlier, who grinned at me, and was over in the blink of an eye, kissing me passionately, now topless, and my fingers traced her breasts, when suddenly an almost feral snarl pushed between us and one look from furious blue eyes burned the girl, and she was blasted away in a single word, shaking in rage-

_Mine._

And suddenly we stood in a jungle, humid and hot, and the redhead was ripped to shreds by a wild, merciless beast, until all that was left was gore and blood and flesh; and she stared at it savagely.

_My world, my rules._

And her world it was; the music was nothing so much as _green_ and sweeping us away, through the moving masses, with no room and time to breath and Astoria next to me, with feverish and wide and empty eyes, hair slick with sweat, as was her body, glistening in the light and the music, and the damp clothes were sticking to her skin; and everything was so clear and the flowers and the trees moved and seemed alive, and when I touched one, it was her and I was her and I felt what she felt, staring at myself hungrily, downed another golden drink and felt it burn inside me, felt my heartbeat accelerate to a frantic pace, felt a sharp spike of arousal.

I blinked and she almost tackled me, pressing her body against mine, uncaring of everyone else, around us, and she grabbed my hand and unabashedly placed it between her legs, demand clear as she moaned and moved against me, and I captured her mouth in a hungry kiss.

A rose thicket exploded all around us, with wonderful, beautiful, perfect red blossoms, exuding a sweet, beguiling smell that was stronger than the music. Her skin was burning hot, and she moved against me, teasingly, with the flow of the music that was around me and in me. And she kissed me, hard, and the roses crept around her, with pitch-black vines, surging forward, creeping around us with wickedly sharp thorns, weaving all throughout; wrapping around my legs and my arms and rooting me to the spot. They cut through my clothes and my skin, the sharp thorns; and it was her, beautiful and strangling, and strangling everything with its beauty.

She stretched her arms wide, and in truth they were black wings, and she my fallen angel, standing there only covered in rose petals that caressed her skin and those thorny vines that crept over her and around her bare feet, leaving small trickles of blood running down her naked body, her jewellery, like bands of rubies on alabaster.

She had a beautiful body, small, lithe, compact, firm, rounded and the light and the music gave it the shimmering luster of a pearl, a queenly body, and she was crowned by circlet of thorns. Her blue eyes gazed at me as a drop of blood fell from a cut on the skin through the air, in slow motion, without haste, and she extended her hand, catching it on the tip of her left index finger. It atomised into many smaller drops, catapulted back into the air from her finger, and then the process reversed and stopped, just as the sphere had touched her fingertip.

Slowly, she brought the finger to her lips and licked it.

And I needed her, right now, and Angel, you're killing me here, I said and my voice sounded strained and there was a smile on her blood red lips, as she pulled me towards her and said, _I know_.

And then my clothes were gone as well, and my thorny rose wrapped her legs around me and her arms and vines around my neck, face flushed and the blue of her eyes swallowed by the dilated pupils, wide and empty, like a black abyss in her high that left nothing but animalistic lust, burning, uninhibited, and her voice quivered in excitement.

"Fuck me, Harry."

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

–––**CHAPTER 5–––**

**I** WOKE up in an unknown bedroom, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. It was very soft, very large, quite white and I wasn't alone.

Next to me, curled up on the silk sheets, was Astoria. She was naked. Her knees were almost under her chin, with her arms around it, and her face was too white, sickly pale. She was shivering a little, even though the luxury covers kept the bed warmth perfectly. She was nothing like the girl from last night, looking so grown-up, the leader of her little gang, on top of her world –_ her world_ –, forceful and reckless.

Now, returned from her place of make-believe, bereft of all magic and make-up, she looked all the more like a child, vulnerable and small, addicted to potions by her own will, and using more magic to hide the effects. It was repulsive and made me feel sorry for her at the same time, the quintessence of a life without meaning or content, and only surface. A girl with a woman's body that left nothing to be desired, but with no character to fill it out. I couldn't imagine that there'd be a second encounter like last night, after seeing her like this.

There wouldn't even have been a first one, had she not tricked me into that Transmency Rave.

The heavy curtains were closed, barring any light, but I thought it'd have to be early morning. I felt well rested, there wasn't even a headache left from the Transmency-potion I had downed the night before. Silently, without disturbing her, I slipped out of the bed, into my clothes that were neatly placed on a chair in front of a toilet table, and out of the room.

The first surprise was the bright sunlight streaming into the corridor. It had to be afternoon. No wonder I felt well-rested. Robards would be blowing a gasket. I sighed.

Her set of rooms turned out to be in the back of the building, looking out over the extensive gardens, roughly as far away from the domicile of her sister as possible. Through the large paladin windows in the hallway I could see Mrs. Bletchley sunbathing on the lawn. An aviary some way off housed a golden blur that could have been one of the almost extinct True Snidgets, in which case it was illegal.

I looked down the hallway. Greengrass Hall consisted out of two wings set at a right angle to each other. In front of me began the main wing in which I'd stayed on Monday when I had visited Greengrass and Mrs. Bletchley. Through the windows I had a good view on it. The French doors to his study, partly hidden by a large oleander bush from up here, were closed. Her rooms faced west, with windows to front, not visible from here.

I started to make my way towards them. In between, I found many vacant rooms, some with furniture, some without. Greengrass Hall was quite extensive, but indeed most of it seemed to be uninhabited.

In short, it was large and old and empty.

Connected to the room where I had met Mrs. Bletchley was a bathroom and a bedroom. The bathroom was all grey marble, cold under my hands. There was a large sunken bath, taking up a good part of the room on my right, with various tabs, some larger, others smaller. There was no drain, so it was probably crafted with a Vanishing Charm. On the corner of the bath innermost in the room an actual marble column carried the ceiling, rising from a narrow wall that headed off the far end of the bath and visually separated the room.

On the other side was the basin with a mirror, and the wall served as a shelf for an assortment of tins and jars, some not bigger than my thumb. I randomly picked one up, turning it around in my hand. The label was empty. Only a few even had one – I found _bain de mousse_ with a terminal number on one end of the shelf (but no more of the same so that numbering them was immediately obvious), charmable nail polish on the other, but most were nondescript. None of them looked like something you could buy. I guessed Mrs. Bletchley liked to create most of the beauty stuff herself. She clearly took care of her body, anyway.

I walked over to the door on the left, which led to the bedroom. Bedrooms, I found, could tell you a lot about their owners, even more so than living rooms. It had to do with representation, with how you were and how you wanted people to think you were. Those two aligned in the rarest of cases. Rooms people other than you frequented thus became part of the façade, not of yourself.

I lingered in the doorway and took in her sleeping accommodations. The bedroom was decked in full luxurious Victorian splendour as opposed to the cool, minimalistic living room. The main colour theme was a deep burgundy; with slightly varying shades, in the heavy tasselled brocade drapings and valances over the windows, in the cushions and upholstery. Together with the dark walnut furnishing, it made for a intimate, dense ambience, and where the too-large living room was cool and impersonal, this room held almost too much atmosphere.

It was dominated by the large bed placed against the far wall, roughly in the centre between the two windows, with an ornate head board and lots of carving. There was a fitting armoire and dressing table complete with oval mirror to the left; a small settee with needlepoint pillows, a round table and chairs on delicate bent legs, with more carving, to the right. Everything stood on a thick carpet, something hand-woven, perhaps oriental. The walls were covered with some pictures showing solely her, without exception; waving, in Greengrass Hall, at Hogwarts, gliding around in fancy dresses on various balls.

And true to the Victorian style, everything was decorated and embellished in abundance. It was very feminine, and I couldn't decide if this surprised me. Lacy, frilly, ornated – it was all there, in the opulent gold-trimmed maroon bedspread on the neatly made bed, in the flower-patterned upholstery of the settee in the far corner, from the largest piece of furniture down to the embroidered lace handkerchief and the chased gold-framed hand mirror on the bedside table, which was covered with a doily.

No, I finally decided. Mrs. Bletchley took pride in being a woman, and if bedrooms reflected their inhabitants, it was only logical to find feminine touches all over the place, to say nothing of the mandatory collection of perfume bottles, vanity brush sets and hatpins on the dresser. What it wasn't was _girly_. That was the distinction I'd searched for.

The burgundy draperies were partly pulled aside, allowing a little light to stream inside through the lacy curtains. The air was good though, fresh, with the faintest trace of lavender.

I pushed the door completely open and stepped inside, the sound of my steps swallowed by the lush carpet on the ground as much as by the heavy atmosphere. Even my breathing sounded subdued. Maybe there was a damping charm on the room.

I had a quick look-see. The golden hand mirror showed me with my hair smartly arranged and lacking the unruliness. The handkerchief had the initials D.G., not D.B. On a pedestal was a bust wearing one of those magical wigs that were imbued with a switching charm or a protean charm (I always forgot which) for doing your hair. It was apparently easier than the direct way, even if you had a mirror that showed you from behind. One of the brushes was currently attending to it, although it looked in top-notch condition to me.

On the dressing table, under a paperweight in the form of a miniature snake, I found a few folded sheets of parchment. I made to remove it and pulled my hand back reflexively. I stared at it, trying to understand why my seeker reactions had kicked in. Then, suddenly, the tail twitched. The tiny onyx scales glittered as it uncoiled and rose, hissing at me threateningly.

The paperweight was a cobra, and it had just tried to bite me. Bloody hell. I gave the thing the evil eye and levitated it off the pieces of parchment. It seemed like her correspondence – I caught the duplicate of a letter to a _Dear Mr. Thinharrow_, apparently a solicitor, specialised in inheritance matters, and some letters addressed to her, part of a longer exchange, simply signed 'E.'.

I considered sitting down, then thought better of it and eyed the chair distrustfully. It looked harmless enough, but you never knew in Pureblood homes. In the end, I remained standing to read the letters. His were odd – sometimes almost intimate, other times so brusque I wondered why he wrote at all. The only one of her I found was blunt.

_Really, Yevgeny, marrying a Mudblood? I realise times have gone rather downhill, but that is no reason for you to follow right after. I should have expected more from a Durmstrang alumni and friend of Antonin's, and I shall not give rest until you have banished the thought of her from your mind. And please spare me the details of her hair and her eyes, or I will cease reading your letters. Your last one read like a bad copy from something taken out of Rousseau's sob-story, and that was already awful_.

_In more interesting news, your uncle will be pleased to hear that I shall agree to help him out with his little inconvenience; I will write to him presently since I found the details regarding the settlement to my satisfaction …_

A rustle made me freeze and spin around. The room behind me was still empty. The brush had stopped brushing. The bust stared at me blankly. I shook my head and turned back to the dressing table and the mirror. I saw my reflection scowling angrily at myself. I wasn't scowling. The mirror …

"Put those letters back at once!"

I moved my mouth, in the mirror, but it wasn't my voice that came out. As if it had sensed that the game was up, my reflection gave up all pretence of behaving like I did. It folded its arms and glared at me. I breathed out slowly. The stupid mirror.

"Shut up or we'll see how well you like being a bunch of shards," I told my reflection. It stared at me in indignation.

"Why, I never – help! Intruders! Mistress! Save me from –"

"_Silencio!_"

I flicked my wand at the shouting mirror and it fell silent. Being disturbed by a bloody mirror was the last thing I needed. I put the letters back. The snake hissed and coiled itself up, becoming immobile again atop he first letter. That one was stiff, formal business correspondence.

… _and as per our agreement from the 8__th__, I will concede the majority of Bobbins & Bobbins Apothecaries to you to settle the debt, since I was unable to raise the required money on that short a notice. Naturally, I'd demand this agreement to be kept a secret between us, for news about my distress would have grievous consequences for my reputation; and so I place myself into your hands trustingly …_

I scanned the letter that was signed with T.B. and snorted at the last part, before turning around to leave the room. Already at the door, my look fell onto a delicate occasional table almost in the middle of the room, which somehow, I had missed until now.

I frowned, turning back around, and the table vanished. Now I was definitely interested. I took a few step towards where I had spotted the table just now, from the corner of my eyes, thinking of nothing else, and suddenly, it reappeared in front of me. It was made from dark walnut as well, standing on three splayed cabriole legs, and apparently had a weak notice-me-not charm put on it. And the reason for that was obvious as well, for resting on a pillow made of black velvet was a wand.

I had wondered what her wand would be. Aspen, perhaps, with the elegant, white, ivory-like wood, matching her affinity for Charms and her weakness in Transfiguration, or maybe elm, the standard wood for purebloods and people of a certain status. Staring at the black pillow, I found it was neither, and that I probably should have known all along.

I knew it well, the dark wood with the reddish tint; as well as I knew my own wand. I had seen it, duelled it, finally beaten and held it, circled around it like a moon around a planet for an entire life: It was a wand of yew.

My eyes raked over it; her wand differed from Voldemort's, it was lighter, slimmer, a little longer, but it was the same notorious wood, always willing to go wherever its owner wanted to travel and be it the darkest of all magic, ready to inflict all kinds of curses unto others, never picking someone that choose to remain in mediocrity. Yew wands were wands of extremes. My fingers extended almost on their own; beckoned to it like the animals were to its poisonous tree by the tempting, shining red berries, closing around the handle, lifting it.

For a second, I held her wand, feeling a rush of something that could almost have been disappointment when nothing at all happened. The wood was smooth, immaculately clean, cool to the touch. The wand felt indifferent, neither particularly familiar nor adversarial.

It was just a wand.

I placed it back, wondering if she did not take it with her usually while at home, or if she maybe had another wand, for every day use, and merely was loathe to use her matched wand for mundane tasks. There were some people – and wands – like that.

I turned towards the door and this time left the room for good.

The ground floor showed more signs of life, even if I still didn't meet a single soul. It included the study where I'd been meeting the old Greengrass the last time, a library, and a large dining room, with a heavy crystal chandelier, wine red walls and cushioning on high-backed chairs lined up along the table, and many more portraits, who all looked at me disapprovingly. I scowled back.

The drawing room was even larger; apparently also used as a ballroom, with a high, ornamented ceiling, different suites of luxurious furniture and polished parquet. It extended out into a conservatory whose glass-walls could be slid open, so that the room seamlessly changed into the lush green gardens. I cast a look outside. The air in front of the southern wall of Astoria's wing shimmered in the heat. In the aviary, the illegal golden Snidget chirped. Mrs. Bletchley was no longer on the lawn.

On a stuccoed wall, inside, was an extensive family tapestry showing off the blood purity 'Of the Ancient House of Greengrass', dating back at least to the seventeenth century, far above my head directly under the ceiling. Next to it, an open doorway led into a stone corridor. I stepped through, and froze.

Metal of armour and weaponry glinted in the light of a flickering fire in a large, white fireplace, clearly used as a Floo. Two sets of armour actually framed the space in front of it, with lots of sharp, pointy things inclined inwards. The impression one had to have after arriving here really had to be something else.

The armour was too small for wizards and in too good a shape even though it had clearly been used. The rusty red stains on the silver metal looked far too fresh for my tastes. There was only one kind of species whose craft could look like this after what clearly was a vicious, bloody battle. Slowly, I turned and stared at the wall opposite to the fireplace.

Staring back were the heads of Goblins, mounted on pikes rising from the ground.

Fascinated and repulsed at the same, I stepped closer. The heads were an ugly, greyish-green colour and bore twisted, snarling grimaces, showing their pointy teeth. They also carried name plates. The one in the middle was apparently Grok the Grim. Dimly, Binn's lessons made their way through my head. The Battle of Hogsmeade. 1612? Maybe. And yes, the name that was associated with that battle was –

_Bartholomew Green Grass, victor of the Battle of Hogsmeade._

A large mural on the wall praised his name. It showed him as a wild, brutal-looking warlock with piercing grey eyes, surrounded by tiny dead dark green things. He was famous for beheading lots of Goblins. Apparently, they were on display here.

This was at least as illegal as the Snidget. The Ministry had outlawed exhibits like this already in the 1762, when the anger of Vargot the Goblin, who had gotten wind of one such trophy chamber, had led to the last large uprising to this date. It looked like the Greengrasses didn't particularly care.

My report grew another entry, and I followed the stone corridor further along. On the very end of the corridor, there was a vaulted passage, with a flight of stairs leading down to the basement. The air that drifted up was cold and smelled old.

A few torches were burning, casting just enough light to prevent a stumble down the stairs. My steps echoed softly back to me from the rough walls as I descended, a hand on the rough wall to steady myself, reaching the bottom of the stairs a moment later. There was a large, doorless room on the right, and a corridor leading away, deeper into the dark basement. I followed it; it seemed in use, as there was a path in the middle where steps had raised and cleared the dust that was covering the rest of the floor. Defying that, every room I passed was empty, open or even missing doors making it possible to look inside, without leaving new footprints. The sole room in use seemed the one at the very end. It had a sturdy oak door, beyond which I found a large, dungeon-like space; pure, unplastered brickwalls and an uneven ground.

It took a while for my eyes to pierce the darkness. The only source of light were the dancing flames of a lit fireplace, on the left, outer wall; which crackled softly through the silence and cast a flickering orange glow into the centre of the room, glinting on the surface of the metal items. There were two obviously magical fires, almost lightless, I thought, appearing out of nothing on the rough stone floor, with two very small brass cauldrons set on it. They were of the self-stirring kind. In the left, the wooden end of a stick or a ladle just then started three clockwise-turns, before it stopped, as though directed by en eerie, invisible hand.

I drew my wand and lit it. The beam travelled over a third, bigger cauldron standing empty against the wall, on to shelves and cabinets with potions ingredients and utensils near it. I crossed the room and opened the storage cabinet, which alone spanned one entire wall and would've been a credit to any one potions master. Carefully labelled and sorted, from Abraxan-wingtip to zedoary, were thousands of ingredients, many of which I'd never heard of. It included such clearly contraband items like eyes of the blind or one revolting shelf that held a the skull of an infant. It was labelled just that, in neat, accurate letters.

I looked into the simmering cauldrons as well, but failed to recognise the potions. Both were perfectly clear. The narrow beam of my wand travelled straight through it, reflected at the brassy bottoms without hindrance. It could have been boiling water. Only one of them emitted a smell, a faint sweetness, a hint of resin. It reminded me of juniper.

The furthest-away corner, near the fireplace, was a little more hospitable, the cold ground covered by a woollen rug, with a table, a dark chesterfield and a bookshelf, crammed full of books. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spend time reading in here, but then again, the Slytherin Common Rooms were much the same. I walked over, idly reading the titles on the spines of the leather-bound tomes. Only few even had one.

Surprisingly enough, they weren't about potion-making at all. What I found by my beam of light was _A Theory on Charms_, a large, blue book with gold letters, or smaller volumes such as _An overview of recent developments in Charms_ or _Goshawk's Index of Charms affecting the Human Body_; and a stuffy-looking discourse of 'The cogitative and mnemenic function of the brain as well as the effects of non-regular influences such as the application of magic'. It was placed askew on top of other books and looked mostly unread, apart from a few pages at the end that showed signs of intense study. They had a coffee stain.

I put it into back the shelf and left the room. There was nothing else of interest in the dusty basements, apart from an extensive wine vault, in the doorless room on the right of the stairs.

o ] [ o

She was awake when I returned.

"Who works in the potions cellar?" I asked.

"Daphne's," Astoria yawned. "She's boring like that."

She was lying on her back crosswise on the bed, legs bent and tucked up a little, with her feet placed on her pillow. Her golden hair, shining in the sun light, spilled carefully-tousled around her head on the sheets, an arm up besides her head, fingers half-curled and playing idly with a strand, while her other hand held her wand, which was conjuring coloured bubbles that rose and popped.

She had dressed – well, she was wearing underwear, pink, and her position flattered her breasts, round and firm and perfectly filling the soft rose-coloured textile that only cupped the lower half, barely covering her nipples. The clasp was in front. Her head turned sideways as I re-entered the room, with a small smile on her face, all big blue eyes and rosy lips, carefully arranged perfection, which would have looked lovely, were I not remembering how she had looked when I left.

"She's got a nice little body, doesn't she?" I turned. Her sister had entered behind me, silent, like a cat, and naturally seen where my eyes had been. Her quiet laugh wasn't quite mocking, but wicked. "You ought to see mine."

All of a sudden, Astoria's relaxed demeanour had vanished entirely. Her eyes flashed. "Get out, Daphne!"

She smiled at her, with a little condescending edge to it, I thought.

"I will, but I'm taking your new pet Auror with me. Granddad asked for him."

Astoria sulked, while I walked with Mrs. Bletchley down the bright corridor. The sunlight made her hair shimmer; it was long, and an ash blonde colour.

"It wasn't that last time."

She stopped.

"Excuse me?"

She was looking at me with her eyebrows raised. She had the definite talent to make people feel instantly ridiculous about themselves with one word and a look. Had to come with the breeding.

I shook my head and tried to shrug away her gaze.

"Your hair. Last time, it was brown. When you wore the white dress."

An eyebrow climbed higher.

"I didn't know you took such accurate note of how I look like, Mr. Potter. Should I feel flattered, or do you ogle everything with tits and two legs in general?"

I got myself back under control.

"Oh, definitely the latter. How would I decide who to go for otherwise?"

She scrunched up her nose and resumed her pace.

"Men. But yes, you are right. Until recently, it was brown. I couldn't have worn that white if it had been light blonde already. I would have looked washed out."

She turned her head, her eyes glittering in the light of a torch set in an alcove, and I knew what was coming.

"Did you like it?"

I only shrugged laconically.

"You are beautiful. But you knew that."

She hmm-ed and nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. If I had disappointed her by not blushing and stuttering, she didn't show it.

"So why did you change it?"

She gave a miniscule shrug of her own.

"I had it for a while. I grew bored of it."

"So that Snow White impression wasn't just an act done for solely my benefit?"

The slight smile was back.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Of course she didn't.

"So which one is your natural colour, then?"

I guessed it was the blonde, since she had had it in the picture as well. But a derisive smile was all I got. "I should like to keep that to me, I do think."

Case closed.

We turned left into a smaller corridor. The floor runner looked oriental and was probably handmade. The rooms were furnished, but empty. I hadn't been here. I wondered if she already knew. Which each step, the house seemed to grow larger and more silent. I picked up our conversation again.

"You know, I'm not certain how it's usually like with her, but I'm sure that my role in Astoria's life doesn't qualify as a 'pet Auror' or 'pet Anything', for that matter," I told her.

She sighed, a little impatiently. Maybe at my insistence to talk.

"That's what they all say."

"To you?"

She didn't miss a beat.

"Of course."

"And it isn't true?"

Now her head turned, and the smile was decidedly predatory.

"I have yet to meet someone where it would be."

"Naturally."

There was a small, lingering pause, before she said, "We didn't get along very well Monday. Perhaps I was rude."

"We both were rude."

Well, I guess that was as much an apology as I was ever going to get. I didn't have the feeling that Mrs. Bletchley was all big in apologising. Some people just aren't the type. Others call them arrogant.

We walked down the narrow corridor, into the far end of the building.

"So you weren't here for Miles," she suddenly said, stopping. We stood in front of a faded tapestry. "Feel like telling me the reason yet?"

"Feel like telling me why you thought I were here for him?"

"Merlin, let's not start quarrelling again. Can't we have a civil conversation like two grown-ups?"

"You spoke with Robards," I said. "You know what I'm doing."

"I suppose I did," she said. "Not that it makes much sense – surely you can't believe Granddad was a Death Eater?"

"I'll know that when I'm done with the investigation. For once, in this shithole of a Ministry, there'll be one investigation done until no stone is left unturned. And if it's only for the sake my conscience, what little of it is left. I guess you wouldn't understand."

Slate-grey eyes stared at me, through me, past me. I started to walk again, turning away. A face, as lovely and perfect as hewn from stone, on one of the statues from the masters of old, and just as blank. She was silent for a flight of stairs. Dark, expensive-looking wood-panelled walls, a flambeaux. It wasn't the wide, sweeping staircase in the hall, but the back stairs. Then: "You might not like the consequences of what you find."

I smiled sardonically.

"You mean, like you calling Robards and me getting stuck with the night shift?"

Her mouth formed a small o-shape, before she composed herself again, in the span of a second.

"I hadn't thought of that. I'm sorry, for the inconvenience. It truly wasn't my intention."

She looked a little contrite and chagrined. At least the former expression I'd never expected to find on her face.

"I'm sorry too. It's life, I take it as it comes, because there isn't any other, is there? I can't change it anyway, can I?"

She shook her head.

"And there you are, being so awfully cynic yet again. Do you never think about just enjoying life? There are so many fun things to do."

"That's your privilege, and reason for my occasional bouts of cynicism, as you call it."

She sighed and looked at me a little haplessly. I started to feel a little uncomfortable.

"I cannot help but feel that it was I who further fuelled that view. You have a very direct way to let people feel when they have made a mistake, Mr. Potter. I'll make it up to you, I promise. What happened last night anyway? I only have a very confused tale from one of her friends."

I pushed those feelings away, carefully keeping my expression neutral, as she looked me full in the face, observant grey eyes searching for something there, but giving no intention as to whether they found what they'd been looking for. I shrugged. I had no desire to talk to her of all people about my little trip into Astoria's world. Some things should just stay inside the mind, and preferably not mine.

"I wouldn't know, you have to talk to your sister. Apparently, they were going out, and she was stuffed with her potions. We were called by Mr. Blotts, who complained about the disturbance. I arrived just in time to stop her from killing a dosser. She said she didn't like his face."

I looked at her. There was no emotion on her face, apart from an arched eyebrow as she noticed me staring at her.

"That doesn't explain how you ended up in Astoria's bed."

"The little beast tricked me into taking a Portkey when I tried to bring her here, got me drugged as well and then into an illegal Transmency-rave somewhere in Eastern Europe."

That elicited a small laugh. The smile looked nice on her.

"So you can be tricked. All it takes is a child. I think I have to give Astoria more and more credit these days. She's becoming well-nigh devious."

"Yeah, I can totally see that of all things making you proud of her. What else did she do, recently?"

She stopped in front of a dark, double-leafed ebony door and smiled her perfect and blank smile.

"I believe we are there."

She knocked on the door twice. While we stood and waited, she told me: "I'll see that Robards won't make any trouble, Mr. Potter. Or can I call you Harry?"

"Sure," I said.

"You can call me Daphne."

"Thanks, Mrs. Bletchley."

"Oh, go to hell, Potter."

She spun around and walked away, and didn't look back. Her tall form with her head held high retreated up the stairs we had just descended together.

"Enter," croaked the voice of Sterling Greengrass and I pushed the door open.

* * *

**Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

–––**CHAPTER 6–––**

**I**T WAS his bedroom, and he was lying in a large, old-fashioned canopy bed that would have felt perfectly at home in a museum, and so would he. Propped up with pillows, his bloodless hands clasped above the crisp white sheet, Sterling Greengrass looked more like a fossil than a living person, long since dead, a relic of some time past.

"Sit down, Potter." He sounded weary and a little stiff.

I pulled a chair close to him and sat down. Between us, a tray floated in the air, balancing a glass of water. On the other side of the bed, all the windows were shut tight. The room was sunless at that hour. Net curtains filtered what glare there might be still. The air had the faint sweetish smell of old age.

He stared at me silently for a long minute. He moved a hand, as if to prove to himself that he could still move it, then folded it back over the other and said: "So you slept in my granddaughter's bed."

That statement was so improbable that I for a few moments could do nothing but stare blankly.

"I guess I did," I said finally. "Is that a problem?"

He made a growling noise.

"Depends. Any chance you did something inappropriate enough that I can marry her off to you?"

I choked on my breath and had to cough.

"I don't think so, thanks. Do you make a habit of asking that question?"

"Ever since that brat finished Beauxbatons this spring, and no, only if someone seems dumb enough to potentially agree." His eyes glared at me. "Why are you still poking your nose into my affairs, you small-brained good-for-nothing Ministry pest?"

I leaned back and hung an arm over the back of the chair. There was the actual question. I studied his sunken face. It told me nothing. I didn't wonder how he knew. Daphne would have told him. But there was still was only one answer. So I told him the same thing I'd told her.

"Because I'm not finished yet."

That didn't seem to satisfy him.

"Potter! You will cease this nonsense at once –"

His angry shouts descended into hoarse coughs. A vein on his wrinkly forehead pulsed, while he drew in rattling gasps of air, slowly regaining his breath.

"You," I said, staring down at him remorselessly, "are more dead than alive." Maybe it was cruel to use his state against him. Somehow I had the feeling he wouldn't mind that in particular. "Who's going to stop me, again?"

There was a silence that stretched between us. Eventually, he shifted slightly, which made the bed creak, and responded; and despite the shaky answer, his voice held a touch of coldness that was so eerily familiar it sent a shiver down my spine.

"If that is truly what you believe, you are even more stupid than you look."

I ignored my reaction and waved that away.

"Yeah, I know. Your eldest granddaughter. So let's talk about her, this is a screening, after all. I'm not clear on all the details there yet. I know about her marriage, obviously, but who arranged that? You? Or your son? And why Bletchley? What was he like?"

He stared at me with the grey eyes that were so familiar, and for a moment seemed far more lucid than he had any right to be.

"I warned you, but very well. Bletchley was a creepy little shite with too much money. He wanted her, and so he got her. Clear?"

Absolutely.

"And why did she return to Greengrass Hall after Bletchley had died, instead of living in his – or well, I guess it's _her _house, now?"

"Obviously because I fell ill around that time and she cared for me. Someone has to, since I wouldn't trust the damn House-Elves not to trip over their own feet, much less hand me the right potion."

"You think she cares about you?"

"I said for, not about. I have no illusions for the love my granddaughters harbour for me, man," Greengrass snapped. "Don't get ridiculous. They'd throw a party if I died tomorrow. Well, Daphne would. I'm not sure Astoria would notice." He jabbed his finger at me. "What do you think keeps them here? With an half-dead old codger? Eh? I'll tell you what! They want my money! But since it _is_ my money, I damn well can make them work for it."

He folded his hands again over the top of his covers, and glanced at me from the corner of his eyes.

"Obviously, I have a passage in my will that leaves them high and dry, should there be any signs of neglect after my death. So yes, Daphne doesn't leave me out of her sight, fearing I could harm myself. It's a little tiresome, in fact, but I can't do anything anyway, and it's far more tiresome for her, which makes it worth it all on its own."

He produced an odd noise and I stared, until I knew what it was. He was cackling.

"Yes, Daphne is very concerned, and she better be, or she just might come away empty-handed. She indulges my every personal whim, and she hates every minute of it. She'd like nothing better than to pour me one of her concoctions and watch me pop off, but she _can't_. Priceless, isn't it?"

He was totally the type to get a kick out of that. There was a knock.

"Get lost, Daphne!" Greengrass shouted hoarsely from his bed. "I'm having an entertaining conversation. You may pamper me later."

The door opened and she poked her head inside, visibly annoyed.

"Head Auror Robards wants to see him, and –"

"Then tell Head Auror Robards he can see him when I feel like it!" Greengrass was in a rare form. He lifted his hand and shook his fist at her, and for a short moment, it was as though the man that used to riot in the Ministry was back, and you could almost forget that his arm trembled from the exertion of moving it. "You don't usually have any problems telling other people what to do, you bloody overbearing nag, what's different now?"

"It's – nevermind. Have fun, Harry." A dazzling smile in my direction, and the heavy door was slowly closing. I picked up our conversation again.

"So it's about money for her? But what about what Bletchley would have left her?"

"Isn't hers, because he left it to the Greengrass estate at my well-chosen advice, which she manages, but without the right to draw on it for her ridiculous personal fancies. She has a monthly allowance, and that's more than enough. There's no money squandering going on in my home." So it was miserly as well as nasty. He stared in the direction of the door.

"Bah, I don't even know whether I'd sooner trust either of them to keep their legs or their money together –"

And like that, he went off into another rant about his granddaughters, this time focused on their licentious lifestyles. At my back, there was a soft click as the door fell shut.

"Now, what about marrying the tart, you idiot? She'll get half my fortune when I finally kick the bucket. One should think that'd be enough to smooth over the most glaring faults, not that she wouldn't consist of anything _but_ faults, of course –"

o ] [ o

I fled from Sterling Greengrass' room a little later, deciding to postpone the visit to Robards and visit the _Daily Prophet_ first, before it closed for the day. It was already past five when I left Greengrass Hall, not much time left to check more newspapers.

Claire cheerily waved at me and her wand at the door, to unlock it, while I nodded back and went down into the archives. The two piles of papers were already waiting; the large one, on the left side, with all the papers I'd already looked through – without success, naturally – and a very small one on the right that was still left from the pile Claire had summoned for me on Monday. Today was Thursday. I was sick of archives.

My article in the end turned out to be in the second paper from a newly-summoned pile chronologically following the original one. I took a minute to stare, annoyed, at the papers I'd wasted the better part of a week with, for nothing, before I started to read the article. It was as short as Claire had thought it would be.

_You-Know-Who's Gold_

_Rumours of a fantastic fortune have persisted, and recently even kept the Minister busy, as citizens asked about it at the new Wizard's Question Time. Under the names like 'You-Know-Who's Gold' or 'Death Eater Gold', it was the origin and essence of many fancy stories._

_Hastily stashed away by the last faithful followers during the chaotic days of the collapsing Dark Regime, after the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it was said to surpass a stunning sum of one hundred million golden Galleons. This fantastic fortune is, of course, nothing more than a myth. You-Know-Who never was in possession of that much gold, even at the height of his reign; but whispered tales stubbornly stay around, from wizards claiming to be eyewitness of high-ranking followers, not all of them Death Eaters, levitating away bottomless crates full of gold._

_So is there maybe a kernel of truth to the story, the tale an embellished version of a far more plain reality? Minister Shacklebolt denied even this, and he has the facts in his side._

_Fact seems to be that the Portkey Office was in high demand during those days, but it was You-Know-Who's followers saving themselves by escaping with Portkeys, not them saving a fortune of mythical proportions. Fact also is that the chaos, which was prevalent in the Ministry after the lost Battle of Hogwarts, made any coordinated effort all but impossible, and what is more, no money to carry away existed. Governmental assets were always stored within the depths of Gringotts, not left lying around in the Ministry of Magic; and even You-Know-Who resorted to goblins in keeping his money safe – perhaps ignoring this inconsistency in his own wizarding-supremacy logic, perhaps only biding time, not willing to risk a war with the Goblins at the same moment where he was still consolidating his power._

_However, there are some other interesting, or perhaps rather, enraging facts. When the Ministry was back under control of those Department Heads that hadn't been active parts in the Dark Regime, and days later Minister Shacklebolt elected, a preliminary inventory found the Ministry coffers plundered. Well-filled at the last term of Minister Scrimgeour, they were now nearly depleted._

_Based on the government's finances before You-Know-Who's takeover, still bolstered by a budget surplus under Minister Scrimgeour, and taking into account what little notes on financial dealings during the Dark Regime there are, the inventory under Minister Shacklebolt leaves a hypothetical sum of thirteen million, four hundred and three thousand seven hundred forty-two Galleons and fourteen Sickles as unaccounted for._

_Of course, whether that money still is somewhere is highly doubtful – most likely You-Know-Who and his followers simply splurged it in a bout of debauchery, hand over fist, with no regards for the hard-working wizards and witches that earned it, and no records or statement of accounts – in line with the rest of the horrible administration, with many missing and incomplete files._

_Nevertheless, that much money, putting a sole owner into the Top 15 of Wizarding Britain's most wealthy citizens in one stroke, undoubtedly will exalt the imagination and inspire tales and dreams for years, perhaps generations to come. And who knows – maybe __**you**__ will find an addition of thirteen million Galleons to your account one day? If the number ends on fourteen Sickles, you know where it came from. – S. Abercrombie_

I sent the rest of the papers back into the depths of the rack-filled archive, and turned my back on the cold, strange-smelling room for the last time. A glorious feeling. Upstairs, Claire was writing a letter, which she stopped, when she saw me coming up.

"That's the one?" she said, while simultaneously comparing my puzzle chest, which I hadn't continued, with the open paper. She nodded happily. "Yes, that fits. You found it." She beamed at me. "Boy, you sure are quick."

I stared at her a little incredulously, but she didn't notice or choose to ignore it, and she was serious. I said nothing.

"Well, let's make you a copy, then." She made some complicated twirl with her wand that ended in an elegant flourish. The paper shimmered, and the page in question suddenly appeared next to it in a perfect copy.

"Works only for employees of the Daily Prophet," she said.

Noticing the today's _Prophet_ on her desk, which featured a headline about BMR protests during the re-opening of the Magizoological Garden in Gwynedd, I nodded and said: "No new article on Bletchley yet?"

Her face changed, taking on a conspiratorial look. She raised her finger, putting it on her nose. She had something to tell.

"That was strange! We got the information anonymously, wouldn't you know, a little bit each day, with the promise for more the next day if we printed it. It culminated in two front-page stories we ran. But then, the next day, it stopped. Just like that. That _is_ strange, isn't it? I mean, why would someone go into all the trouble of finding and spreading those things, and then just stop?"

She looked at me, then her brown eyes went round. "Oh! Are _you_ researching Miles Bletchley's death?"

"I'm not," I said. "Just a simple screening job of the elder Greengrass, but this story somehow seems to pop up at every turn. Wherever I go, it's already there. Even though there is absolutely nothing fishy there. You know?"

"Oh," she uttered, then bit her lip and looked concerned. "Be careful, Harry. I bet Greengrass is _real_ dangerous."

"I doubt that."

"Maybe you'll have to duel him!" She looked delightedly horrified at that thought. "But you'd beat him in a duel easily, wouldn't you, Harry?"

Apparently, she had her knowledge of the job from those cheap Auror novels. I said goodbye and escaped, before she could ask me whether or not I slept with my wand under my pillow. It was the second escape of the day. I had to be doing something wrong.

o ] [ o

I arrived at the office just before seven p.m. and Robards was waiting. He looked like he had been for a while.

"My office. Now!" he snapped. I waved at Pat, who was talking to someone on the Floo, in passing.

Robards did have an actual room, not the cubicles everyone else had. It was spacious, with an imposing desk facing the entrance that was supposed to intimidate visitors, just like the contrast of the little chair in front of it, where I took a seat, to his large armchair was supposed to. It put the visitor in a position where they had to look up to him.

His desk was spotlessly clean, papers sorted away neatly into in-trays and out-trays and multicoloured trays with some sort of colour-code I'd never gotten the hang of, and he folded his arms on the polished board, looking down on me.

He also had a window, currently showing the Sahara, a soapstone-fireplace with a Floo, and a goldfish. It was in a glass bowl on a drawer. The fish, not the fireplace.

Robards bent forward.

"Listen well, Potter. If it was up to me, you'd find your arse on the street at the very moment, for delaying the proceedings, helping a criminal, because you weren't in for work today while not sick and because I can't stand your miserable face."

Well, at least he was honest.

"That's nice," I said. "What changed your mind and made you come up with a better decision?"

Robards looked like he was moments short of getting a stroke.

"You know very well who that was," he growled. "Thanks to you and your new friends, there now _aren't_ any further proceedings. There never was any case, no deed, no culprit, only some lowlife-idiot who tried out a self-invented hex and cursed himself to near-death. Sounds like a good story to you, Potter? It's a fucking fantastic story. Things like that happen all the damn time. If only it were true – but wait, it is true, because otherwise someone would be lying, and you and your highborn friends would be in big trouble, wouldn't you? Attempted murder is a nasty thing, after all. But not for you and yours. Must be nice to have the most influential pureblood snobs sucking you off."

It was totally like him to hold that against me when _he_ was the one who had arranged it and profited from it more than once. In fact, I'd have bet that he had more _closed_ cases in his goldfish-drawer than I had ever worked on in total. Things swept under the rug, securing him the favour of someone or another. But I let that slide. Robards was Robards, and nothing I could do or say would change that.

And Astoria had been rather good with her mouth. But he didn't need to know that, and seemingly wasn't finished yet. It took him visible effort to continue, though.

"Also, I thank you on behalf of the Greengrass family for your … _exemplary_ effort, they were very satisfied with your service. Thank you, Auror Potter."

The last words were pressed through his gritted teeth.

"Oh, not at all," I said modestly. "I was happy to be of service."

Robards made an odd strangled noise. It sounded like a low gurgle.

"Do I get a pay rise out of it as well?"

His left eyelid twitched and his head was turning red at an alarming rate.

"I guess not," I said hastily. "Well, I have a case, I'll be going then."

I left the room quickly, shutting the door just as an explosion of "Get the hell out of here, Potter" was cut off by the closing door. Thank Merlin for soundproofing charms.

The entire department was staring at me.

"What's up?" I said. "Nothing to see here. Robards just thanked me for my exemplary effort. Finishing time, folks. Get home, have fun, do whatever."

Pat shook his head, exasperated. Savage laughed. Williamson sneered at me. Everything as usual. I walked down the aisle between the cubicles, and steered towards mine, just entering the box, when I stopped dead in my tracks.

There, sitting on my desk and swinging her legs, was Astoria.

* * *

**Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

–––**CHAPTER 7–––**

**A**STORIA BEAMED as she saw me coming. Her hair was bound in a neat ponytail, kept in place by a simple pink tie, and she wore a white long-sleeved collared tie blouse with some kind of adorable little bow tie, long cotton stockings and a surprisingly modest skirt. It reminded me a little of the Beauxbatons school uniform; she looked cute enough to eat.

"You sure took an awful lot of time," she said. "Didn't you miss me?"

She looked at me cutely. It hadn't yet been half a day since I'd left Greengrass Hall.

"Terribly," I said.

That got me another bright smile. "I like you," she said.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes. What are you doing here? Does your sister want something?"

Instantly, her expression darkened. She made an odd little noise, like the hissing of a cat.

"Why would you assume that?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "No reason. She seems to run the show, is all. Thought she might've wanted something."

"Well, she doesn't. I'm not here because of _Daphne_. She doesn't even know I'm here. I came to apologise to Mr. Robards, for last night, and because I wanted to see you. And you think of her."

She pouted and I stood there, awkwardly, and mentally cursing her for making me feel awkward. It wasn't as if I owed her anything. Apart from a nice spanking for getting me in trouble, maybe.

She picked up my silver Auror badge, toying with it idly while looking at me. Or perhaps through me – I wasn't sure she was seeing me, then. Her pink nails clicked on the metal, _click-click-click_, and she seemed to have forgotten just about everything that happened and everyone around her, completely absorbed by the task of flicking the badge.

"It's pretty," she noted suddenly. "Shiny." She giggled. "So you really are a big bad Auror. What are you doing, investigating how Daphne killed Miles?"

She said it artlessly, but it still rubbed me the wrong way.

"I'm not investigating Bletchley's death! Why does the entire world think I am?"

She almost looked disappointed. "Well, it was all over the news again, recently. Perhaps that's why people think you are?"

Obviously, she had not grasped the concept of the rhetorical question.

"Well, I'm not," I said. "Currently, I'm cleaning up the mess you made. When you decided offing a dosser sounded like a spiffing idea."

Her face only showed incomprehension.

"You know? _Killing?_"

Big blue eyes stared at me. "Dunno. Maybe I did? But it's all cleared up now. I apologised."

I snorted.

"Yes, that is what you would call all cleared up. An apology after an almost fatal incident. You know, an apology is nice, but other people might not see it that way."

For once she seemed to get the sarcasm. She gazed at me, puzzled. "Why do you care? Did you know him? He isn't important."

I sighed. Arguing the point was useless. She didn't understand. She wouldn't understand. Maybe she couldn't. She was, in this sense as much as any other sans her obvious magical and sexual maturity, a child. I needed to start treating her as such.

"Of course he isn't. They never are, are they?"

The problem, of course, was that she was too powerful and too boundless to be treated that way. My own words came back to haunt me.

She frowned a little. "I could make him important. I think." Then she looked at her nails, flicking the one of her thumb over the nail of her index finger.

"You know, it was Daphne's fault. That you are in trouble, over him. She called Robards."

"I know. It wasn't intentional. She apologised."

An upward glance through her fine lashes.

"And you believed her?"

I frowned at the entirely too cute beast on my desk. "What are you getting at? She said it wasn't her intention. Why wouldn't I believe –"

"Because it's _her_. She _never_ does anything unintentional. You don't know her, do you? At all. It's _my sister_."

She spat those words in sudden furore.

"You can be sure she wanted you to be there last night and arranged for it. Who doesn't know about your mutual animosity with Robards? What'd be the first thing he'd do, if anything came up that annoyed him with your name tagged on it? Don't believe a word she says. She'd lie to the face of Merlin himself without batting an eye. From anything she tells you, you best assume the opposite. And even then, you won't know if that's what she wanted you to think. So what did she do."

She stared at me, intently. Like the first time we met, her blue eyes suddenly seemed too hard, her look jaded or calloused, maybe, an irritating detail that didn't fit with the rest of her somewhat delicate appearance. In an odd sudden reversal, for a second I felt like the inferior, the inexperienced one. It was a feeling that I didn't like at all.

"Did she look contrite? Surprised, then sorry, perhaps a little miserable, to make _you_ feel sorry for _her_?"

"Well, yes, but I –"

"Don't bother," she said softly. "Don't ever bother feeling sorry for her. Because you can be sure that _she_ doesn't. It's all an act."

I was silent at that. Blue eyes stared at me, now clear and agitated.

"All she has is regrets. And even those are for her and only her, because she cares about no one but herself. Despite what she may appear. Don't fall for it and don't fall for her, because it's the last thing you'll ever do. Remember that, Harry."

I looked at her and snorted. "You would try to denigrate her."

She only smiled. She rose from my desk, slowly, pushing herself off the table with her hands, sliding to her feet, and started to walk towards me. She kept advancing until she almost bumped into me, and then suddenly pushed me backwards, into my chair. She was surprisingly strong, catching me by surprise, and before I could do so much as react, I was sitting and she was in my lap, all over me.

"Would you blame me?" she whispered.

Perhaps she meant her remarks.

Her arm was around my neck, her small hand reached under my robes, searching; hm-hmming, satisfied, when she found what she was looking for. Her fingers started to slide deeper. My hand clamped around her wrist mercilessly. There would be no repeat of last night.

She stared at me quizzically, tilting her head. Her ponytail bobbed over my shoulder.

"I _really_ like you. You're nice."

Her cornflower eyes were so wide and clear. And here she was, in my lap, her light azure skirt ridden up her legs, and all I wanted her to was to get _off_ –

"Potter! Do you have the – _ah._"

My head jerked around, and I tried to look at owner of the voice that just entered, but he was out of my range of vision. Which made no difference, because I knew him. Williamson.

I heard the sneer in his voice.

"I see. Robards' new _favourite_ is hard at work. Going for the barely legal kind now, Potter? Never pegged you as the type. But then I guess everyone likes a piece of tight pussy."

I finally managed to look at him. He already had his coat on, ready to leave, and now stared at Astoria.

Astoria wasn't fazed by his comments at all. She smiled at him over my shoulder, stretched and purred like a kitten. Probably took it as a compliment.

"Make him leave, Harry. He's interrupting us."

Her hands securely in my grasp, she was now nibbling on my earlobe. I angled for my wand and froze her hands, leaving mine free to deal with her head.

"Oh, he will leave," I told her. "Just like you will, in fact."

Williamson sneered at me.

"Don't stop for my sake, Potter. Wouldn't dream of refusing you your reward, after all – apparently being Greengrass' buddy has its perks. Should I try to shit on the department to get some as well, do you think?"

I was _so_ fed up.

"Williamson, if there's nothing you need, get the hell out. Astoria, if you're not somewhere that is not my lap after I finished counting to three, I'm going to stun you and move you there. I've had it with this crap."

He opened his mouth and I levelled my wand at him. That shut him up.

Williamson shot me a last glare and left. I'd never even found out what he'd come for in the first place. Astoria didn't move an inch. I stared at her pointedly. She pouted, when she realised I was serious.

"See you later, Harry."

She gathered her things, smoothed her skirt and rose. A final bright smile into my direction, and she was gone. I was alone. I propped my elbows on the table and buried my head in my hands, staring down at the grainy wooden plate.

o ] [ o

I saw Pat talking with a Healer from St Mungo's when I left my cubicle, all packed up. It looked like he was getting an update on the victim of last night. He stood in front of the fireplace and listened to the words from the other side.

"- that aside, he had a few broken ribs. The lacerations were worse; it ruptured the spleen, causing a massive abdominal haemorrhage, and of course there was a pulmonary laceration that resulted in a haemopneumothorax."

The Healer added a few more medical terms that made no sense to me. Pat nodded, however.

"How is he?" I asked.

The man blinked through his glasses. He had watery blue eyes and was already going bald at the temples, even though he didn't look much older than thirty. At least judging by his head. The rest of him was at St Mungo's and invisible to me, of course.

"Newly appointed Healer-in-Charge for the Morgan le Fay Ward for Dark Magic and Incurable Curses, Augustus Pye. A pleasure, Mr. Potter. As I just told your colleague – well, the short of it is, he'll make it. He was in a right mess, wouldn't you know. But not to worry, Mr. Potter, we put him back together. We even found all his organs, haha."

Healer Pye chortled as though he had just made a fantastic joke. Obviously, he belonged to the constantly-cheerful-healer group. I couldn't stand those. _Oh, you lost your arm. Of course, you could've lost your head, so you were lucky, haha._ Yeah, stuff that. Then I'd rather have the second archetype, the constantly disgruntled one. There didn't seem to be many besides those two these days.

Healer Pye smiled brightly.

"He'll be as good as new, besides the obvious problems."

"Good to hear," I said, suddenly distracted with a different thought. Next to me, Pat scowled.

"A quick question Healer, what would be the mnemenic function of the brain?"

Healer Pye stared at me nonplussed, even forgetting to smile. "Your memory. Why?"

"Oh, just asking. Thanks, Mr. Pye."

"Call me Augustus, Mr. Potter. I –"

He suddenly broke off, frowning over his round glasses and listening to something behind him in the room.

"One moment, please. I have to look after the patient." His hand appeared in the fire, putting the placeholder next to his head, and then he pulled his head out. There was some commotion, and agitated voices drifted through the open connection.

"It was the Unforgivable! I was under the Imperius curse, I swear I was! Why would I have been there otherwise? I had business to do in Hogsmeade –"

A vaguely familiar female voice interrupted him. She sounded exasperated. The argument seemed to have been going for some time.

"We already talked about that. Healer Pye was most accommodating, and even did a quick mind diagnostic spell. _Nothing!_ There was nothing! Won't you please be reasonable? Who would put a ragtag like you under the Imperius Curse? You need to calm down, or you might tear the laceration open again."

There was a frustrated howl.

"I can't remember! I already told you, I can't –"

His voice was abruptly cut off. The head of Healer Pye re-appeared in the fire, glancing at us apologetically. "I have to return to him. The potions fixed him up, but apparently, he's become a little unstable. Not to worry though, we'll fix that too. Gentlemen."

He nodded to us, and his head and the placeholder vanished with a soft popping noise. The fire crackled and sprayed sparks, and returned from bright green to its usual warm orange-yellow.

"You can look for traces of the Imperius Curse now?" I asked.

Pat didn't look at me and said nothing. He instead busied himself with cleaning the chimney that wasn't all that dirty at all, flicking his wand silently, scourgifying soot that stuck to the mantelpiece, and then vanishing a few flakes of ash that had fallen on the stone floor. I got the distinct impression that he was avoiding to look at me.

When he turned to leave, still without saying a word, I grabbed his arm.

"Pat! What's up? How is he?"

He finally turned around, staring at me. His light blue eyes, usually friendly and good-natured, were cool and distant.

"His name is Geiger."

I winced. I hadn't wanted to know his name. Not his. It made it personal.

"His stomach is a scarring mess, and he'll never walk right again. Did you know?"

I pressed my lips together. Big blue eyes. _He isn't important_.

Pat neatly pocketed his wand, straightening.

"That's the 'obvious problems'. Dark Magic. Some of the wounds damaged nerves, or there was a spell that directly targeted his nerves. They don't know. They couldn't heal them all. It never works, with Dark magic. He's a cripple, now."

His voice was detached, and the impact all the greater for it. A spell of silence fell between us, uneasy, heavy silence. It was past seven, most Aurors were already gone. On the other side of the corridor, only in a few cubicles still shimmered light. A couple of stragglers walked past, more or less quickly. Work was over. Everyone wanted to go home.

I suddenly felt tired, despite the fact that I had slept almost until four in the afternoon. I wanted to go home as well, go home and never come back, but that wasn't an option. Not yet.

"What will be done?" he asked finally.

"Nothing," I said. "You know that."

"Yes. No one missed the Greengrass girl sauntering through the department."

And then his eyes fixated me.

"To your place."

So that was it. There was the accusation in his gaze, and it made me feel awkward and angry in equal measures. It wasn't as if I had wanted this or done something to help cover it up. Hell, I'd even told Astoria that, however much useless it turned out to be.

"Now wait a moment, Pat," I said hotly. "You can't possibly think that I had something to do with the whole sweeping it under the rug mess? It's been that way for years, and –"

"You benefited from it, didn't you? Greengrass is very pleased, or so I hear. Your future looks brighter than ever."

"Yes, but damnit, I didn't want –"

He held his hand up to stop me.

"I'm not in the mood to listen today, Harry. I haven't slept in almost twenty-four hours, first trying to keep that man's insides from turning outside, then getting the report done, only to find out that nothing will happen. Only know that I thought you the last to use other's influence to advance in this department."

And with that he turned and left me standing.

I swore angrily at the empty air, kicking against the stone fireplace, which did nothing but hurt my foot. I couldn't care less what the rest of the department thought, but Pat was a different matter. For a second, I was tempted to follow him home to continue our conversation, but discarded that idea instantly. It wouldn't do any good.

Ill-humoured, I turned and walked towards the door, for the lift down to the Atrium where I could Apparate. The department was dark by now, apart from the cubicle of Williamson and Savage on the other side of the room, who were on night shift this evening.

I heard the door to Robards' office click open. He stuck his head out.

"I trust you haven't forgotten the dinner tomorrow night, Potter," he called when I was already at the door. I groaned.

The fourth anniversary of Voldemort's final defeat, complete with an official Ministry banquet and absolutely _the_ big thing on the calendar of every wizard and witch with an ounce of self-respect.

Not that they'd all be there, naturally. The official function was only for the elite. I'd done my best to forget it.

"You know you're required to attend. It's in your honour, after all. I look forward to seeing you there, if we don't get another chance to meet until then."

The door slammed shut again.

I glowered silently. If that had been the reason, I'd have no problem telling them all to bugger off. Never mind that I'd always be the guest of honour, the simple truth was that I was an employee of the Ministry, so they could make me attend, and I hated it with a passion. All those stuck-up purebloods – if there at least were some good-looking girls, but all I could remember seeing were old crones the kind of Augusta Longbottom, and brainless airheads, comparing dresses and fashion.

Another reason to quit the job.

Robards knew that too. He was simply searching for something to needle me with, and he wouldn't have been himself, if he hadn't found something. And gotten the last word in. I threw a last dirty glance in his direction where now only empty space was and left the Auror Headquarters.

o ] [ o

I re-appeared at the doorstep of Number 12. Sirius had left me the house, and whether I liked it or not, it was the only house in my possession, and so I lived in it.

It wasn't as bad as it used to be, though. Or perhaps I had gotten used to it. I'd fixed it up, or rather, had it fixed up – the wallpapers at the entrance no longer peeled from the walls, there was a new carpet, and it generally looked much cleaner than it ever had during my Hogwarts years (and, I guessed, cleaner than it had been in the last three decades) – but it still carried its very own gloomy atmosphere, and no amount of Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover could get rid of it. It was in the flickering light of the old ornamented chandelier I lighted, in the shadows that scurried over the green-damasked walls, in the age-darkened oak planks that creaked under my steps, the century old doors, the portraits with stiff wizards and witches, the heavy ticking of a large hall clock.

It was ancient, it breathed heavy history, and was oppressing more often than not.

And today, it fitted my mood perfectly.

I kicked my shoes into a corner, ignoring the protests of Walburga Black, when even they sounded half-heartedly, and went into the kitchens, where Kreacher had made some sort of stew. Delicious, but I wasn't in the mood to appreciate it, and no one was there to keep me company and distract me from my thoughts. Perhaps I should've invited Claire and gone out, after all. Then again, I knew her type. She would've ended up annoying me.

Only when Hedwig descended through the air onto my shoulder as though she had read my thoughts, I felt my annoyance at the Robards and Greengrasses of the world recede. Gratefully, I stroked her plumage. She understood me.

It wasn't important. Not anymore. Next week, I'd be already out.

"Time to finish the report, and take my leave, hmm?" I told her. She hooted.

"The article doesn't tell us anything," I said. "Who bloody knows why he burned it. We need more information. Time to visit old Lucius."

Hedwig hooted disapprovingly.

"Yeah, but he knows stuff, right? So we pay him a visit and ask, get the answers we want, and then that's it. No further trace to follow. The report will be finished."

Hedwig bumped her head into mine.

"Why I didn't do that right away, you mean?"

I frowned.

"You know, perhaps because I know it'll be finished, then. I know there's something there. Greengrass can't allow it to become official. Robards can't either. So maybe I procrastinated. Once it's done, we'll be stuck in the press. Robards on the left, Greengrass on the right."

I scowled at the room at large. Hadn't I been here, when I fought Voldemort, just like this? Hadn't I beat him? So where was the problem in pissing off some other fucker?

"Bah," I said. "We faced worse odds. And after all, I wanted to quit. That removes Robards, and with Greengrass alone I can deal."

I conjured a piece of paper and summoned a quill from upstairs, and started to write my to-do-list for the next day. I usually did that. It was quite short.

_Speak with Pat, get into Azkaban. Finish report. Get fired. Enjoy dinner._

"Fat chance at the last point," I muttered, studiously ignoring what I'd left out in my analysis. It wasn't old Greengrass pulling the strings anymore, choleric but otherwise predictable.

It was his oldest Granddaughter.

o ] [ o

I dreamed. I was looking down on a sea of people, a mass of bleak grey, like in an old black and white movie; they were the army of the average, the irrelevance, each non-distinctive, cookie-cutter boring, Ministry-regulating-this-or-that-types, a wealth of unexciting lives and unexciting ways of living. From the faceless grey she stood out, the single splash of colour, vibrant, alive; in her bright red dress, strapless, leaving her shoulders bare, showing her smooth skin.

It was long, reaching her ankles, but slit on the side to past mid-thigh, revealing her endless legs; hugging her form and showing off the sensual curves of her waist and chest and she knew it; wearing this slight smile self-assured women get when they were acutely aware of what feelings they inspired, half mocking you for staring, half pleased with themselves for making you.

Her beautiful features were framed by her glossy, light blonde hair, which she wore quite short and out of her face; the velvety red lips seemingly wrapping themselves around the words she spoke; a luring call, the temptress, the promise for everything you never dared, having to offer more in a glance than most women did in a lifetime.

It was more, though. I fancied I could look inside her, and what the exterior was in light and colour, her inside was in darkness, and thus was her true attraction and secret reason she kept everyone spell-bound: the contrast between the dazzling light of her beauty and the utter darkness of her heart.

So it was that she stood there, the queen of the world; a mirror to reflect inadequacy and the canvas for your dreams; the great divide, hated, despised, loved, adored, but never indifferent, never failing to leave a lasting impression. Where she went, she left a mark.

And I realised that I was among the colourless, and wanted to be marked by her; and under her piercing grey eyes, wrenched myself free and rose. Her fingers beckoned me closer, calling me.

_I will redeem you_, she promised. Her eyes burned in a cold fire. _I have summoned you_, they told me. And a whisper from her scarlet lips; _You are mine._

And so I was, and it was all I ever wanted to be. She was perfection, and I wanted to be perfect, for her. With her … through her. My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I got closer, and suddenly, everything was gone and I was standing in a house of mirrors, reflecting her likeness, all around, so that everywhere I looked, it was she, always she.

I ran through the maze, up and down, hearing her quiet, mocking laughter, while it seemed that the longer I ran, the further away from her I got; gotten lost in the maze, gotten lost in life, until I finally could run no more, sinking to the floor, giving up, beaten, alone.

And in that moment, as if to underline the point that it was all her doing, her decision alone, the mirrors around me shattered, and she was there, waiting, looking down at me. I yearned for her touch and she granted me salvation, extending her slim fingers towards me, lifting me up; I felt her hand on my cheek, cool as her gaze, like porcelain, elegant and smooth.

And then I was kissing her, hard, only to find that it left blood on my lips, and it was my blood, I was bleeding; but I kissed her again, desperately, dying with it and unable to live without it, felt her ice-cold lips on mine, bleeding away and she only smiled.

Gasping, I jerked up, breathing hard. My blankets and sheet were a tangled-up sweaty mess; and I was shivering, feeling like a frosty wind was brushing over my bare chest. A finger rose to my lips.

They were ice.

Odd snippets of a dream flashed through my mind, though fading quickly, slipping away. It was some after effect of Astoria's potion. A pale moon shone through the window and painted a strip of the room in a wan light, making the dark darker, and the white floor look as pale as a dead body. In the dark parts, figures formed and dispersed, like phantom angels in the eye.

And all I saw was _her_.

"Lady in red," I muttered. "How cliché is that?"

I turned left, facing the desk, and my mood plummeted when I looked at the clock and found it to be past four a.m. There was no way I would get more sleep, but it was too soon to be doing anything else.

Cursing, I rose; dressing quietly, debating what to do until I had to leave for the Ministry. In the end, I went into the basement and conjured a few dummies for target practice.

For some reason, they all were female and looked familiar.

* * *

**Review!**


	8. Chapter 8

–––**CHAPTER 8–––**

**I** LEFT the house shortly after seven.

After the strong rainfalls earlier in the week, the air felt still clear and brisk, and the sky looked like it was freshly cleaned, but it was surprisingly cool for August. The rain had washed away the heat as well. Grimmauld Place, the square, was lying still under the morning sun that had just climbed over the rooftops, dazzling the dirty, rundown houses with its bright rays and making the scenery look almost nice. I guessed it had been, once. A long time ago.

I closed the black door behind me and walked down the worn stone steps, towards the patch of grass in the middle, Disapparating somewhere in-between.

o ] [ o

I came into the office five minutes later and thought I was having a déjà-vu experience. My desk was already occupied yet again. Mrs. Bletchley was sitting on it like she owned it (the chair still housed the stack of papers). She had her left leg folded over her right, and was looking impatient, which brightened my mood a little.

Today, she was wearing an elegant crème-white costume, complete with hat and gloves. Among the untidy desk and the worn Ministry furniture, she looked out of place.

"Well, you do get up," she said, wrinkling her nose as me throwing my cloak over the chair caused the hazardous stacks of papers to teeter precariously. The entire place was a mess, but I refused to feel embarrassed. Mrs. Perfect-"I pick my hair colour to fit my dress"-Bletchley wanted to come unannounced, she'd sadly have to deal with it. Not that I'd have tidied up if she had announced herself.

"I was beginning to think that perhaps you were the kind of Ministry employee that got paid for sleeping."

"You mean, the usual kind? Well, I do try. But sometimes, my sleep is interrupted by work."

A distracted smile flittered over her face, but evidently, she had more important things on her mind. Her fingertips picked up a page from a newspaper. It was my copy from Claire.

"Work like this?" She made a show of studying it, before letting it slide back onto the table. I had no doubt that she read it and anything else she found interesting already before I was here. She was like that.

"That's a paper."

"You don't say."

She rose in a single, graceful motion from my desk, clasping her hands in front of her.

"It would all go to Robards, wouldn't it?"

"What?"

"This report you're writing," she clarified. "It'd go to him."

"A clever guess, but not all that hard to figure out considering he is my boss and all."

A reproachful look, but still no verbal reaction. It had to be _really_ important.

"How much?"

"What?"

"Don't always say 'what' like that. It's impolite and common."

Well, or perhaps it was not, after all. She looked at me impatiently, and I felt the strangest urge to laugh, which only intensified at her next words. "How much so that you give it to me, instead of Robards when it's done. You can finish it, for all I care. Take your time. You said that's what you wanted. Only, I get it, not Robards, not anyone else. I think this is a fair proposal."

I finally couldn't help myself and started laughing at the completely bizarre scenario. "You'd want to pay _me_ to write a report about _yourselves_? Have a few of your memories gone missing, and now you hope I'll be able to find them again for you or something?"

I stopped grinning when she didn't react. "Wait, are you serious?"

Now she looked annoyed.

"I assure you, Mr. Potter, I am quite serious."

"No can do," I told her. "You can have a copy, when the Aurors come to arrest someone. How's that sound?"

She blinked slowly.

"If you insist on writing this report, I want it in my hands. I'm used to getting what I want."

Of that I had no doubt. Well, it'd be different, then, for once in her life.

"You're thoroughly spoilt, sweetheart. It's high time that you found a limit for how much you can have your way, and I'm insanely happy to be the one providing you with this enlightening experience. Now, if that is all …"

She didn't move an inch, and continued speaking as if I hadn't said anything.

"Yes, I'm spoiled – more than you'll ever know. I pay for what I want. You just tell me the price."

"It has no _price_," I said, annoyed. "What do you think you are doing here? Wait, don't answer that." I scowled at her. "Use your warped ideas of fair deals on someone else. I'm not rich, but not nearly desperate enough to accept gold from _you_. Why don't you get me pulled off the case? Should be easy enough for you."

She dismissed that with a wave of her hand.

"I could, but it wouldn't stop you. Not you. I thought about it, but realised it wouldn't work. At least not in this instance. For whatever reason, you made it personal. Whatever did we do to you, Mr. Potter? You could have picked anyone – the Selwyns, the Averys, whomever. All of them would have been more suspect. Why us?"

"Your existence is quite enough reason, thank you," I told her, starting to sort the papers on the desk, past her. "Go bother Robards. You can always pay him to get the report or bury it in his drawer. Once he has it."

She pulled a face.

"Oh, _Robards_."

I gave her a sidelong glance.

"So you really don't like him, huh?"

"Robards is an idiot, and if he annoys me one more time, I'll have him fired."

She paused, considering me.

"Is that what you want? I can have him removed, right next week. You could be promoted to Head Auror. Heaven knows I'd be doing a good deed at that, funnily enough. So. Money? A better position? Or perhaps something … different entirely? I'm not nearly as easy as my sister, I'm afraid, however …"

She turned towards me, slowly, an amused spark in her eyes.

"You are an oddly fascinating man, Mr. Potter. I can appreciate that. Invite me to dinner, treat me like a queen …"

She bent her head, and suddenly, I felt her lips on my cheek, cool, yet still burning me like a fire where she kissed me, lingering for just a moment before she slowly withdrew; felt her breath tickling my neck and her whispering voice velvety soft in my ear.

"… and we could discover where things might take us."

Shivers raced down my spine. For a short second, all I could think of was her breathy voice in my ear, her hands on my back and her lips all over me. I shook off the too vivid thoughts, cursing myself for the moment of weakness. If she hadn't until then, she'd now know exactly how she could affect me.

If her tiny derisive smile after she had sat back down was any indication, she hadn't missed it at all. Her eyes had followed mine as they travelled all over her – she was quite used to this. She'd shifted comfortably under my straying gaze, perched here, on the edge of my desk; leaning back just a little, radiating utter confidence and self-assurance. She would get what she wanted. One way or the other. There was no question whatsoever for her. And that, more than anything else, ticked me off.

"Oh yeah?"

_Big time._

"You know, it seems to me that much rather you are _exactly_ like your sister. Your only difference is your price."

Now that was a classy rejection, but sadly, she didn't appear to be listening. She was staring thoughtfully at the paper clipping from Claire, and ignored me.

"But sure, we could talk about a few things, then. I'm sure there a lots of things you could tell me that would make the report quite a bit more interesting." No reaction from her whatsoever. I waved a hand in front of her. I needed her out of here as fast as possible. "Hello? That's a no to your question. Now get lost."

Nothing. Her fingers picked up my badge from the desk, and the black lace of her gloves started to polish it, thoughtfully. She stared at it, the crest of the two crossed wands with a shield, which suddenly vanished and turned into a clear reflective surface. She tilted her head and adjusted her hat. The pale yellow phoenix feather was turned a little more back.

The bitch was seriously using my Auror badge as her personal pocket mirror. The arrogance and presumptuousness was unbelievable. I ripped it out of her grasp.

"Hey, what do you think you are doing?"

I went ignored once more. I started to wonder if she practiced that in her free time.

"Robards … you brought him up, but he dictates you nothing. Do I miss my guess? No, you aren't one of his lackeys. You are anything but," she eventually said, slowly, while now staring at me, pensively, speaking as if she uttered the words the moment she thought of them. "And this isn't about him. He doesn't even know what you are doing. If he did, you'd be long gone. This is just between us, between you and me, and no one else. You must have realised that."

She pushed herself off the desk, again; moved closer, studying me, and I saw her eyes clearly, those piercing grey eyes that regarded me as though they were looking through me effortlessly, watching me, from the inside; as if I were made from glass, for her.

"Everyone else would let it rest, but not you. Never you. You stepped out of the boundaries, for you felt you stood above them. You rejected the usual rules, because you only respect your own. You scoff at the others, thinking them fools and yourself in the right. _You_ do what you want. Isn't it so?"

She lifted her arm and her hand slowly closed around mine, and stroked over the fingers that tried too desperately to hold onto the badge missing a crest, until they opened and it dropped into her palm. The lace of her gloves was thin, but even so, there was no warmth. Her touch was cold as ice.

The badge regained its former appearance; two crossed wands, a shield.

"So convinced."

She flicked it onto the table.

Nerve-racking clattering in my ears. A fine, thin smile towards me.

"And so very much like me. The only thing that truly differentiates us are our positions at the table. We are equals here, you and I. And not unlike at all."

The badge rested upside down in a field of debris. I stared at her.

"I could list you quite a few differences. Most noticeably that I represent the law. I'm doing my job, that's all. It's not some sort of … game."

She waved that away with a short gesture that made the emerald on her ring flash, and now her voice was sharp and quick and certain.

"But that is exactly what it is. Stop pretending, Potter. The report is only the prize, not the reason. You started a game out of boredom and discovered you liked to play, as much as I do. Right and wrong stops being meaningful, when our stances are but circumstantial and we would stand here all the same if our positions were reversed; I with the report, and you trying to stop me."

I snorted.

"I sincerely doubt that. If our positions were reversed, I'd be lying drunk on the beach in Rimini, while you'd just be climbing out of Robards' bed."

Shock registered on her face, then outrage. Two hard red dots blossomed on her cheeks, and they had nothing to do with her make-up.

"I may be many things, Potter, but I am not a whore," she hissed.

_Finally._ And her eyes sparked fire for the second time since I'd met her. Had I discovered a new talent?

"No? Could've fooled me –"

Damn, she was quick. I barely got my wand out before she already got off a hex, from her yew wand that appeared in her hand out of nowhere. The spell – a nasty looking greenish-yellow thing – hissed past my left ear, because I got my head out the line of fire at the last instant. Instead it hit wall behind me, smashing the entire structure to splinters.

Uh-oh. Someone was volatile.

My poor co-worker in the cubicle, into which we now had a first row view, squeaked in fear and ducked under the table.

This brought her back to her senses. Her face turned stony and blank almost immediately, but not before it had taken on a chagrined look, as if angered at herself for losing her composure, or perhaps at me for making her.

"Always the beast. Did you ever even notice that you hide behind crudeness, whenever there is something that is uncomfortable to you?"

I closed my mouth and stared at her. Her expression showed nothing. Only her voice was a little strained, still. She hesitated for the fraction of a second.

"That wasn't even what I came for."

I pulled myself together.

"Oh?"

Her wand flicked impatiently. "_Sphaira privatus._"

My eyebrows rose.

"A Private Sphere, just for the two of us? But I thought you didn't like my manners?"

"No, I certainly don't," she snapped. "You're impudent, a cad and lack class. And I won't tolerate any more childish insinuations, regardless of how funny you find them to be."

"Oh, damn."

She pinched her nose. "I'm sure I don't know why, but I find you intriguing. Call it perhaps a weakness of mine … I always had a thing for puzzles. And you are most certainly a puzzle, Mr. Potter."

Once more, her grey eyes drilled into mine from under slightly drawn-together eyebrows, perfectly trimmed, marking two elegant arches on her porcelain face, as though via her penetrating gaze she could solve whatever she thought was puzzling.

"I almost fear you overestimate my depth, Mrs. Bletchley."

"Let me finish speaking! I realise it may seem a folly, but I had hoped that you could behave for one single, short evening, and instead amuse me with your wit. I don't think that's too much to ask. The dinner tonight – I understand you have to attend?"

"Yes."

"Then we will go together."

Her voice was clipped, and she was already turning back around.

"I expect you no later than exactly eight-forty-five p.m. at Greengrass Hall. Have a nice day, Mr. Potter."

With that, her heels clacked back out the office, leaving me staring flabbergasted at her retreating back. Her words preyed on my mind, dividing time into _before_ and _doubt_, more than I wanted.

And a spot on my cheek still burned with cold fire, like an icy breath of frost.

o ] [ o

I was sitting on the chair in the middle of my chaotic cubicle, keeping on staring surlily at an old and dirty teapot on my desk, long after she was gone. Her visit had thoroughly spoiled my mood.

It wasn't the fault of the teapot.

I sighed and craned my neck over the separating wall. I glimpsed a wrinkled robe and a red shock of hair, in front of a tidy desk.

"Got a moment, Pat?"

He came over, taking in the state of my cubicle silently. I followed his look, moving from the chaos of papers on to my dirty teapot on to the still destroyed wall. There were faint scorch marks. It didn't improve my mood.

Eventually, Pat rolled his eyes, and waved his wand. A moment later, the wall was repaired, the teapot scourgified and the papers stacked neatly. Without the gum wrappers in between.

"Pat, I need to visit Azkaban," I said. "Off the record. Suppose you could get me in there?"

He didn't answer right away.

"I wanted to apologise," he said finally. "About yesterday. It wasn't fair of me to blame you. I was pretty beat, but still. I know you wouldn't let her off like this if you could help it."

I still hadn't let her off anyway at all, but that wasn't what was important to me right now.

"No matter, Pat," I said. "All forgiven and forgotten. Now, about Azkaban …"

He looked distinctly uncomfortable. I frowned.

"What's up?"

"Why don't you ask Robards?" he hedged.

I scowled at him.

"Very funny."

"Look, Harry – I'd really like to help you, but –"

I stared at the large man opposite of me, who now looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"What's up with you, Pat?

He hesitated, then pulled himself together.

"Harry, perhaps you should let it be. Hand in the report. You've done more than enough. Leave it at that, this time."

My mood darkened with every word he said. At the end, I could only stare at him, incredulous. He couldn't possibly have said what I had heard.

"Let me just repeat this, because I'm not sure I understood what you said. Yesterday, you're blowing up at me because you thought I helped in keeping the shit under the rug – which I didn't, by the way, that was Robards – and _now_ you tell me to leave it be?"

Pat looked away.

"You heard the Lady. It'll only bring you trouble."

"I – wait." His words had caught up with me.

"I sure did, but how do _you_ know what she said? How –"

_Oh_. That manipulative bitch.

I stared at Pat and suddenly knew exactly what had happened. _Robards dictates you nothing_. And that's saying nothing about other people's advice, like, oh, your friend's, right?

"When, Pat?"

My voice was hard, and he looked startled.

"I don't know –"

"Cut that crap. When did she visit you?"

He looked uncomfortable, and then away, and I had my proof, if ever there was any doubt.

"Well, well."

I tilted my head and looked past Pat, past my cubicle walls, at the door beyond which she had vanished.

It looked like she'd been busy. One could almost think she wanted me to keep working on it. I couldn't, for the life of me, imagine that she ever thought this was going to work. If I hadn't wanted to anyway already, I'd sure as hell be doing it now just to be contrary.

"She came this morning, Harry."

Pat spoke fast now, as if he wanted to get over with it as soon as possible. I guessed it would be sort of uncomfortable to him.

"Told me – well, warned me. That you'd be getting in too deep. That you wouldn't listen, which is just like you –"

"_Why_ would I listen to a suspect I'm investigating, Pat? Tell me, please?"

"Damnit Harry, she's serious!" Pat made a frustrated noise. "And in the end, it's a fruitless endeavour. You won't find anything. Let it rest, Harry."

"Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we? I'm quite serious too."

I grinned at him, but then something in the way he'd said it made me pause.

"Her own words, Pat?"

He sighed.

"Yes. Look, Harry –"

He said something else, but at that point I was already boiling.

So she didn't think I'd be able to dig up anything. I could just imagine her as she talked to Pat, cool and sure. No movement on her face, no asking questions, only breezing in, telling him, and marching back out. Perhaps a small flick of her hand, a short toss of hair.

The unbelievable arrogance. The bloody nerve, of all but admitting there was something _there_ by the way she tried to dissuade me, and _then_ telling me I wouldn't find anything anyway. Well, she could stuff her arrogant attitude right back where it came from and watch as I would _fucking_ show her that I damn well could –

And at that moment, everything came to a screeching halt, and I wanted to squeeze her lovely, slender neck, almost hearing the quiet, triumphant laughter, as she declared victory.

_You like to play, as much as I do. You can't lie, Harry. Not to me._

"Harry? Harry, are you listening?"

Pat was miles away. It was half an hour earlier, only her and I, talking, arguing. The purpose of her visit. Myself, neatly manipulated and manoeuvred around for no reason at all except to make her point; effortlessly, with only a little needling on her part. I swallowed. A point and a final warning.

And I realised I didn't care.

"It doesn't matter, Pat," I said. "It's already beyond the point of no return."

And it was. I wasn't going to give up now. "Might as well bring it to an end. I'll tell you what I told her. Just once, there'll be an actual _investigation_. You know, with a start, then following all leads and clues, and a report, when there's a result. Wonder if Robards even knows what that word means anymore."

I stared at the closed door to his office bitterly, cursing all Robards' and Greengrasses of the world, and meaning it, and meaning it not.

Pat sighed.

"Robards is not that bad, Harry. In the end, his hands are tied just as ours are. He does the best he can."

"Yes, where 'the best' comes exclusively in the combination with 'for him'."

Pat raised his hand.

"I'm not going to argue with you about Robards. Just as I'm not going to argue about what you think you're doing here. It's your case, and your life."

His big hand clasped my shoulder amicably.

"Just take care. I don't want to see you going down. Sometimes I think you're the only rational being left in the Ministry."

He looked at me sincerely and right then, I only felt like laughing. I felt like laughing madly at those words, when in truth now all I saw was _her_, her faint smile, saying _I told you so_ and liking me better for it as only she would; well aware of how I looked at her, crazy for a touch and dying for a kiss. Yes, rational indeed.

It was more than enough to keep my mood right where it had been, after she had left: perfectly bad. And the response of the little voice, which had arrived with her and stayed behind when she left, was the final nail on an already entirely forgettable day:

_Never sure if that was because the beautiful bitch had tried to bribe you with a date, or because there was a part of you wondering why you were fool enough to pass it up._

* * *

_**Review!**  
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	9. Chapter 9

–––**CHAPTER 9–––**

**I** BARGAINED with Pat, and in the end, it worked out easily enough. Pat knew a man at Azkaban named Walt, who'd be the only guard at the prison during lunch break, allowing me to slip in for half an hour without the hassle of getting an official permit.

So it was that lunchtime found me at the windy cliffs of Azkaban instead of eating in the Ministry canteen, standing on the grey cliffs, my Firebolt in hand.

It was all that people thought it to be: far out in the North Sea, with nothing but water from here to the horizon; a tiny rock, barren and forlorn. On the west side, roughly exposed to the stormy winds, was the graveyard, where countless of now all but forgotten prisoners were buried. No relative came here to take care of the graves. No family walked by and paused to remember. Even in the brightest daylight, there was what seemed like a constant shadow over the burial site, and really the island as a whole.

The weather was fair, which had spared me being buffeted around and getting drenched on the twenty-minutes-trip on the fast Firebolt over the North Sea as it would have been the case earlier in the week, but the sun seemed somewhat dimmer here. It was a little washed-out, a fuzzy speck in the sky. I hoped it was the fog.

The air was filled with it – spray from the surging waves that were constantly raging against the grey cliffs, settling on clothes and skin, tasting salty on the lips. It created a thunderous sound that made all conversations impossible.

The tower housing the guardhouse rose before me, made of slabs of dreary grey rock, most likely carved out from the island itself. I stumbled up the uneven rock, covered by a few clumps of slippery seaweed, and passed the tower as far as possible, walking straight to the rough block that was Azkaban Prison proper, further ahead. No need to get tangled up with the eating guards and countless annoying questions.

Pat's man turned out to be true. He was alone in the little room next to the entrance, inside the prison, which was deathly silent, after the thundering waves before; blanketed in inverse silencing charms. He was a sickly looking young man, with glasses on a large crooked nose. Walt, I remembered.

I didn't envy him his job. Where I complained about Robards and boring paperwork, he had to deal with the constant presence of Dementors on a little lone island, in summer and winter. Kingsley was still fighting to get them removed, and until he succeeded, they stayed right where they were. The problem was, of course, that while not a few agreed that after their ready joining of Voldemort, keeping them as guards was neither practical nor safe, no one wanted them to roam _their_ backyards instead either. At least Kingsley had ordered them into the deepest, subterranean levels that currently held no prisoners, so I wouldn't encounter them.

No, I felt sorry for the guards. The pay was good, but there was a reason for that.

I offered him a weak smile, but I guess he didn't see it, never changing his expression, only blinking owlishly at me as people with thick glasses are wont to do.

"Who, then?"

He had a thin, wispy voice.

"Er – Harry Potter," I said.

He coughed. It sounded unhealthy and ill.

"Not you. I'm not blind, you know." He looked at me as if I thought he was. Well, I had. So sue me. "Which prisoner."

"Oh," I said. "Malfoy. I need a quick chat with him."

He didn't rise.

"The stairs to the left, three floors down, past the security door, and then you're there. I'll get you in twenty."

Then he started to munch on a sandwich, which he had lying in front of him on his desk. Clearly he wasn't going, so I went alone – to the stairs, three floors down, past the security door which I could open from this side, but not from the other.

The cells were open on the front, so that I could look inside; instead of a wall, there were iron bars. Of course, open didn't mean _open_. A multitude of charms and spells made it as impenetrable as the rest of the walls. It was more like a window than anything else. From the inside, you could see through it, to get a good look of what you could not have, and hear through it, to enjoy the screams if someone had gone mad. And that was all. A nice construction.

I stopped in front of a cell, which, as opposed to the bare stone of the corridors, looked comfortable enough, with a decent bed, a rug, table, books and chairs. Lucius Malfoy looked well-cared for, lacking his elegant robes and other items he liked to surround himself with, but otherwise fine.

He was sitting on his bed, and looked up at me with disdain through the bars separating us when I arrived.

"Potter."

"Lucius," I nodded politely. When I didn't say anything after, he sighed impatiently.

"What do you want? Still working for the Ministry?"

"Thinking of quitting, actually. Got myself a Greengrass sister, so I'm all set."

For a second he froze, then his face assumed a bored expression once more.

"Congratulations. And you felt the need to inform me? How quaint."

"Sure I did. After all, the Greengrasses are running the show right now, much like you did, before your little mistake. Not even the slightest bitterness?"

"If you came to mock me, Potter, I have to regretfully inform you that your attempts are pathetic. Now, will you waste more of my time or tell me why you came?"

"Why, Lucius, I didn't know you had something to do today. But I'll try to make this short, I'm usually considerate."

Malfoy looked at me in annoyance. I ignored it.

"What do you know about the Greengrasses?"

"Information, I should have known." He leant back on his bed lazily. "Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because it might get your arse out of here faster."

He snorted.

"I don't believe a word you say."

"Naturally. Still, I'd like to know what you know about the Greengrasses and Miles Bletchley."

That got the reaction that 'Greengrass' earlier failed to produce.

"Bletchley!" He spat the name, almost jumping off the bed, before he reigned in on himself. "Alright then, Potter. It's not like I have a better conversational partner. So what do you want to know? How old the youngest girl in Miles' bed was?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Some bitter feelings, Lucius?"

He looked at me surlily.

"He took over as the Dark Lord's financial adviser, after I fell in disgrace."

"When Draco failed to murder Dumbledore, you mean?"

"Yes, then," he said impatiently. "Stop your incessant interruptions. I am speaking. Miles was wealthy and used this to buy himself the position and his way up in the Dark Lord's ranks, even though he wasn't marked. He fancied himself an important Death Eater – but in the end was too much of a coward to take the mark. I never understood why people insist on calling those without a mark Death Eaters, merely because they followed the Dark Lord. We who were marked were, not scum like Greyback or Miles Bletchley."

"Your pride in your little snake-tattoo is heart-warming," I said. "Did I mention getting you out of here sooner? Forget it."

He glared at me, but continued as if I hadn't said anything. He really had to hate Bletchley.

"In any case, I doubt many knew that side of him. As he wasn't marked, he wasn't in attendance at the official Death Eater meetings, of course, and I only saw him because the Dark Lord virtually lived in Malfoy Manor in those days. Miles always came directly to him. I have no idea how they ran the finances or if there was a steady money transfer. To the best of my knowledge, the Dark Lord never had his own Gringotts account, not even after he took over the Ministry. Whenever he wanted something done that needed money, which was surprisingly seldom, at least in great amounts, he went to Miles, who then was responsible for getting it to where it was needed; which meant Miles also was privy to many of the larger plans. Just like I had been."

"And Bletchley always took his own money?" I said sceptically.

Lucius shrugged.

"His money, yes, but also that of other wealthy Purebloods who supported our cause. He would have had an official missive from the Dark Lord himself, which would have convinced them to open their vaults to the bearer. I wouldn't know. That was just how I did it. I guess, later on, when we had control of the Ministry, it might have become easier, as they could simply draw on the Ministry funds. Business taxes, the likes. I never got to ask him, he died shortly after you killed the Dark Lord, and I was sent here, even though I was fighting against them and was acquitted."

He gesticulated around.

Now I snorted.

"Yes, yes. I know how the Ministry works. You are all innocent – except, of course, that you got convicted for prisonbreak, for when Voldemort broke you out. That's incredibly funny, don't you think?"

He didn't think it was funny. I guess. He only glared at me. I sighed.

"Right. You say, Bletchley was basically a top-ranked Death Eater. How come no one knew?"

He scowled. "I just told you, he was no _Death Eater_, and I might very well have been the only one, at least the only left alive now, who saw him and the Dark Lord together. And no one ever asked me about him. He was dead, no one cared, why should I bring it up?"

"And his wife? Did she know?"

"Daphne? Well, of course she knew."

"What?"

"Are you deaf as well now, Potter? I said –"

"I know what you said! I just mean – are you sure she knew what Bletchley was up to?"

"Oh, I'm certain she did, and about _everything_, too; you know, Miles and her little sister, when she was home on holidays from school?"

"That's disgusting, Lucius. Wasn't what I meant, though. She knew about his work for Voldemort?"

"Whether Miles told her details is anyone's guess, but she had to know the fact that he had close connections with the Dark Lord, just like her father had. After all, the couple of times we gathered at Greengrass Hall – on Nathan's urging – Daphne attended the meetings. Miles was usually there as well then, saying he was visiting the Greengrasses with Daphne. That the woman you got, Potter? Back then, she had the demeanour of an ice-cold killer. She was very sympathetic to the Dark Lord's cause. Might have gotten some small tasks from him too. They spoke a few times. He was impressed by her, I think."

I stared at him.

"You are totally sure? She was involved?"

"Well, the more I think about it, the less certain I become," he drawled. "Do you want me to think some more?"

I scowled.

"Very funny. I'll laugh later, if you don't mind. So she was there as well, and they all knew? The old Greengrass? Every Death Eater? Why did none of us ever know?"

"Of course they all knew! Sterling was old but not deaf and not brain-addled. How wouldn't he know what was going on when the Death Eaters met in his own house? He was never in a meeting himself, but of course he'd have his means. The thing you're ignoring, Potter – _again_ – is that she was no Death Eater. So _what_, exactly, would others know? Nothing but what I just told you. That she was at a gathering in her father's house? Playing hostess? That's hardly surprising. That I personally wouldn't have turned my back on her even if a Troll was breathing down my neck? Looking like you'd jam a knife into someone from behind without hesitating if he displeased you is still no crime. Or perhaps that I _think_ she _might_ have gotten small tasks, because I _felt_ the Dark Lord favoured her? No, Potter."

He shook his head.

"You never cared for collaborators, never wanted to know about guesses and ideas of what really went on. All you and your likes ever asked for, and most likely all Death Eaters told you, were names of other Death Eaters. She had no mark, so she wasn't one, just like Miles, but at least with him, I know for sure what was going on. She was a complete non-entity. Perhaps she wanted it that way. Perhaps she simply was a small fish, compared to others. You concentrated on those. Of course, then you let them get away."

He sounded bitter.

"But Bletchley was big," I said. "And no one ever knew. Would Daphne have known? Would she have helped him?"

"Yes, and he's dead, too," Lucius drawled. "You know, instead of asking me questions I can't answer, maybe you should ask your new friend herself, eh? If there's anyone left alive who knows, it's her."

He started laughing.

"Have fun, Potter. Congratulations on the choice, by the way, I hear she's still this lovely person to have around I remember. And don't forget to get me out!"

Our talk revealed nothing more of importance, but when Walt came to get me out, the laughter followed me all the way back through the corridor, up to the security door and beyond.

o ] [ o

Truthfully, I came very close to standing Daphne up. Imagining her standing and waiting there for me while I wasn't showing up for the Ministry function was a so very tempting idea. Her paroxysm of rage would be of epical proportions.

And yes, I knew that wasn't the way to go if I didn't want to play her game. I should've excused myself politely. Should've called in sick. Should've stayed away, yes, but for no other reason than self-preservation. The job was just a job, except when it wasn't. Right now, it wasn't. It hadn't been, not from the moment I had picked up that picture that was a paper clipping in a file.

And I had known that, deep down, which was the reason I had picked it up in the first place. I hadn't pretended then and was going to start now. Yes, I had more interest in her than was professional. There was something about her that drew me in, an aura of danger, hidden somewhere between her unbelievable arrogance and her spoiled kind of beauty that was just about as far away from pure as it got. And like the little child playing with fire not despite but because of the risk, I _needed_ to tease that side out of her.

And so, if I considered to leave her waiting, it was by no means an expression of some annoying shreds of reason, warning me to stay away from her and finish my work as quickly as possible, and most definitely an expression of my desire to set her in rage, just because I could.

_Little payback for your behaviour up to now, bitch._

With this admission, my formerly bleak perception of the day suddenly changed. The game was on and I liked it. I was not entirely sure that that was a good thing, and most definitely it wasn't a good thing that _she_ knew about it; however, I did, it was the truth and the uneasy feeling would fade soon enough, leaving me wonderfully reckless. It always did. Already, I felt the thrill of the chase coming up.

Or perhaps it was just the exhilaration of flying.

Azkaban was disappearing in the haze behind my back. My bad mood from earlier was staying behind as well; I was flying back towards the coast on my Firebolt, going over a hundred miles an hour, the wind whipping my hair. It felt like I hadn't used it in ages. I needed to get out more often. Chasing terns, chasing criminals. Chasing rich, snobby, bitchy women that were as cold and dangerous as they were beautiful, and twice as alluring. Like Daphne.

So little Daphne, barely out of school, had been a Death Eater. Well, in all but name.

Perhaps she had tortured and killed, and perhaps she had not. Maybe it should have made her less attractive. Maybe it would have, for most people. It didn't for me. But that was alright. Because on the other hand, my attraction to her didn't diminish my desire to finish my report and see her in Azkaban at all.

I never claimed to make sense to anyone but myself.

I pulled the Firebolt down hard, diving recklessly, shouting over the water. I felt alive like I hadn't in years. I didn't want to give that up for anything.

Had all that had been missing all those years, after the war had stolen everything, only been a challenge?

I never claimed to be a saint either. The image of the perfect, heroic Boy-Who-Lived always was just that – an image. Perhaps she was able to look past it, seeing things that others did not.

Perhaps she saw nothing but herself.

o ] [ o

I was already back home that evening, when something made up my mind for me. I opened the door to my bedroom and froze. Someone was already there. It was a House-Elf. It was _her_ House Elf.

"Mistress said to remind yous to dress accordingly. She will not be made a fool of because her escort looks like a tramp."

It was looking at me and my surroundings with something akin to disgust. What the hell? I didn't owe a damn _House Elf_ an explanation about my style of dress or my bedroom, much less _her_ House Elf.

Bessy or whatever she had called it was apparently waiting for an answer. I was just about ready to curse the elf and introduce Mrs. Bletchley to the Black-tradition of beheading House-Elves, when I had a sudden inspiration.

Perhaps it was at that moment that I gave away the last chance to get out of this affair, here, where I in a second's moment decided to forego the path that would have put a distance between us, right reason for that or no. I didn't know. I couldn't look into the future. But if that was the case, I gave it away freely and happily.

"Oh, I will be dressed perfectly," I told the House-Elf, smiling. It looked at me suspiciously as if it couldn't believe I was giving in that readily, and I added: "And I'll be there on the minute. Really." And I would be there. Perhaps it was even for the best – I had lots of questions. Tonight was a good opportunity to get answers.

"Bessy will tell Mistress," it said, and made it sound like a threat. Then it disappeared with a soft _pop_. I stood there, wondering how a squeaky voice could sound threatening. Dobby sure as hell had only managed to sound ridiculous. Then again, so had old Lucius. Perhaps there was more to a bond between House-Elf and master than I knew.

I turned towards my wardrobe, ignoring the dirty clothes on the ground (I had forbidden Kreacher to enter my bedroom, thanks), wondering if I had what I needed. It didn't look that way. I sighed and prepared myself for another quick trip to Diagon Alley. It was half past five. I had half an hour left.

Then again, I _was_ Harry Potter. Perhaps they would make an exception for me.

* * *

**_Thanks as well to the Anon Reviewers. Love reading every comment I get._**

_To the last 'Guest': I could, yeah. But that'd be a different story, then (though certainly interesting!) :)  
_


	10. Chapter 10

–––**CHAPTER 10–––**

**I** RETURNED to Grimmauld Place sometime around eight o'clock and managed to dress in ten minutes. I put on my Auror cloak, and Apparated to Greengrass Hall, even having fifteen minutes to spare. If that wouldn't make her happy, I didn't know what would.

The door to the entrance hall was not locked. I knew this, because I had opened it and was standing in the large, cold entrance hall. The sinking western sun over the downlands shone through the stained glass above the doors, for once lighting up the hall, and the white stone glowed in different shades of red and yellow. The portraits above the tile paved staircase were still glaring at me silently. I glared back and ascended the stairs.

When I reached the gallery, I heard voices. I walked towards the door that was slightly ajar, the only one on the corridor that formed the gallery, in order to announce myself, when I heard Astoria's voice.

" – because you are jealous!"

I froze. It sounded all but hysterical. I really, _really_ didn't feel like walking in on an argument she was part of. For that matter, I had no desire to see her, period.

The response to Astoria's claim came prompt and dripped with condescension. There was only one person who was able to inject that much of it into a single word.

"Jealous, Astoria? I think not. Now are you quite finished with your childish fit? I need to –"

"He likes me more than you! Even your own husband liked me more than you! You know what we did, and you cannot stand it!"

I chanced a quick look around the doorpost. Astoria was standing sideways to the door on the other side of the room – some kind of living room –, facing her sister, her small fingers clenched to fists. In her face, a wild range of emotions was reflected. She was flushed, in wild anger, but also triumph, as she hurled out her accusations.

A rising eyebrow was the only visible reaction from the older of the two Greengrass-heiresses. Her face was the same cool mask I had gotten to know so well, the very opposite of her agitated sister.

"If you were at twelve just as great a slut as you are now, that is nothing to brag about, Astoria."

The younger girl continued as if she wasn't listening.

"You want him but you can't have him. He's mine. I had him first and he likes me more than you. So stop trying to steal him!"

"I do not see what that has to do with anything. In fact, I fail to see a point at all in your ramblings. Merlin, control yourself, Astoria. Did you drink your potions again?"

"So what if I did? I mean it, Daphne! Get your hands off him. He's mine!"

Astoria looked moments short of attacking Daphne with her bare hands. Daphne apparently realised that as well, as a small crease appeared on her forehead, and her posture lost a little of its relaxed demeanour.

I shifted my position slightly to get a better look at Astoria, wanting to see how this played out. I remembered the look she had thrown Daphne when the older girl had entered the bedroom to fetch me, yesterday. I had an hunch what the argument was about and I didn't like it. The next words confirmed it.

"We are going to a Ministry dinner together, Astoria. That is all."

"With you that's never all, and you know it," she spat. "You can't fool me, Daphne. I know your little plan."

Something changed between the two of them with those words. If Daphne had been standing still before, she now became virtually a statue. The silence after was profound. A pause, a heartbeat. Then –

"You do not want to go there, Astoria," she murmured. "Don't forget it was I who arranged the rendezvous with your little Auror, because you wanted it so very much."

And my dislike turned into something else entirely. I had figured there had been more behind my night shift, even if it was just a shot in the dark at the time. Daphne was busily stocking up on reasons why seeing her off would be the greatest moment in recent history. Not counting every moment that led there, of course.

"You had your night. Now it's my turn."

She paused.

"How about we let him decide? One night for each of us. That is only fair. And when has picked me, I'll be happy to lend him to you to amuse yourself. They all get far too clingy anyway, eventually."

"No!"

"No?" she arched an eyebrow. "Why not? We never had a problem with sharing before. For that matter …"

She took a step closer to her sister, pulling her into her arms, tilting her head. And suddenly, the two sisters were sharing a passionate kiss. I involuntarily raised an eyebrow behind my cover. This was unexpected. Astoria didn't really look unhappy. Daphne ran a hand through her golden hair.

"You never complained when we were together either."

Astoria pushed her head forward again, claiming the lips of her sister, moving in almost hungrily, until Daphne pulled away. A small content mewl slipped past Astoria's slightly parted lips and I wondered why I didn't feel surprised in the least at these new revelations in their strange relationship. Well, alright. Fucked-up relationship. But it was fucked up already before an additional nice dash of sisterlove. Daphne uttered a little laugh.

"So at least that hasn't changed." Then she sighed. "I've been neglecting you, haven't I?"

Her hand trailed over Astoria's cheek, who sighed and buried her head in Daphne's chest.

"Yes, I have. But then again, you were a bad girl and deserved the punishment. We can share him, and it'll only be the three of us. How does that sound?"

Well, to be completely honest, it all sounded like someone was in for a rude awakening. Their supposed new pet had teeth and would bite. I was rather looking forward to it. Astoria didn't like it either as she stiffened and wrenched herself free of Daphne's arms, glaring at her sister.

"No! He isn't like the others."

"Indeed not, which is why we are in this situation in the first place, no?" She sounded impatient now.

"I mean it, Daphne. Stop it. No more games. Sweet Morgana, he wasn't even _aware_ of it until I told him. It's not … right."

A full, rich laugh echoed through the living room.

"Right? _Right?_ Since when –" More laughter. "Oh, the delicious irony. Somewhere, a Greek tragedian must be rolling in laughter, I'm sure. And I can assure you by the way that he is perfectly aware of what is going on. He isn't half as innocent as you seem to think he is."

Her look roamed through the room and I involuntarily retreated further around the doorpost. Coincidence. She couldn't see me through the narrow gap in the unlit corridor, and gave no indication she knew of my presence, facing Astoria again, her face highly amused.

"But this is too funny. The only Greengrass in Morgana knows how long to suddenly sprout an inner integrity is the most flawed of them all, bent on destroying herself as fast as possible."

Then she tilted her head, measuring her up.

"How come this sudden bit of conscience, though?"

"It's nothing."

Astoria turned away from her sister, facing me. I was now able to see her clearly. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable. They darted around, she was trembling, barely noticeably, looking like a cornered deer searching for an escape.

Suddenly, Daphne stopped laughing.

"No. Don't tell me that – you do?"

Her expression changed. Genuine amusement gave way to a different kind of delight. I thought her smile had a cruel edge.

"You love him? Oh you poor thing, whatever can we do about that?"

Astoria stared at her, then made to dart away. Daphne tsked and caught her by her arm easily, pulling her down to the couch, her hands taking Astoria's.

"Tell me everything," she cooed. "How did this happen?"

"It … happened?"

Astoria's voice was soft. There was a note of hope in it. Suddenly, I didn't want to be here anymore. The scene in front of me became an intimate baring of soul that was not for my ears, except it was me for whom the words were meant. Words that I didn't want to hear, because they meant it wasn't a game anymore. Yet on I stayed, rooted to the spot, understanding her clearly.

"He is nice. He is nice to _me_." A sense of wonder crept into her words that cut through my heart. "He is funny, and handsome and he never looked down on me." Someone who was never allowed to be a child, never allowed to dream of Prince Charming, forced to grow up far too fast and far too soon … I shook my head wearily, stopping that train of thought. The entire world had problems. It wasn't my business, was it?

"Could he … could he love me too?" The last words drifted over almost inaudibly, full of hope and confusion and desire as her vulnerable heart was laid bare.

Daphne burst into laughter. Next to her, Astoria froze.

"Don't be delusional, Astoria. He finds you disgusting. As would anyone seeing you without your Charms, you can't blame him. Your infatuation blinds you to the last shreds of reality. However, we will rid you of this problem, never fear."

Now that wasn't even cold-hearted anymore. I wondered if Daphne had a heart at all. Probably not. Tears filled Astoria's eyes.

"I hate you!"

She jumped up, pushing Daphne away, who was trying to pull her down again.

"Don't touch me!"

"Astoria –"

"Don't!" she screamed. "Do you think I'm blind? I know what happened! He loved me and you took that away, you did it, he told me that you would, and now you're going to do it again –"

The temperature in the room dropped by twenty degrees. Daphne interrupted Astoria in a voice that was ice cold. Gone was even the last trace of affection.

"I warned you, Astoria. I warned you again and again. Don't start involving yourself in things that are too big for you. People who insist on keeping biting off more than they can chew eventually choke. You aren't even close to being able to play these games with me. Don't forget it took me all of two minutes to halt your last attempt. That is your level. Cute, but nothing more. Don't forget that, Astoria. I won't tell you another time."

Astoria's face was a mask of blank hatred. Daphne's look was ice. Two sisters, staring at each other with the utmost loathing and contempt in their eyes, two bitter rivals instead of companions, but apparently unfairly matched. I would have loved to know what they were talking about.

"You'll rue this, Daphne."

Astoria's voice was shaking.

Her sister carefully folded her legs on the settee and waved her hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Run along now, get another vial of your drugs, drink until you lose your senses or do whatever. He should be here any moment. I need you out of the way."

Astoria spun around and stormed out of the room. I barely managed to retreat from the door before she passed me by, crossing the stairs and vanishing in the corridor on the other side.

Daphne rose, slowly wandering through the room to the far door, humming softly. In front of a large mirror she stopped, turning a little and re-arranging her dress, then she left the room as well.

o ] [ o

I decided to give her another five minutes, before I called for her House-Elf to announce me. It led me to her rooms; she was in her bedroom, the Victorian room I'd seen yesterday. She was sitting in front of the dressing table in one of the upholstered chairs, and looked at me in the mirror. Her eyes were even greyer than usual, I thought, or maybe it was the mirror.

She wore a ivy green draped sheath dress with a train; one of those that hid nothing and was a constant struggle because of it, as it forgave neither the smallest blemish in your silhouette nor dressmaking skills that weren't top notch.

Needless to say, on Daphne it looked like the dress was proud to wear her, not the other way round. It had a low, lace-trimmed neck and no real sleeves, leaving her arms bare; and around her shoulders she'd draped a sheer emerald silk shawl embroided with gold. Behind her, on a taboret, was a pair of matching gloves. Her hair, still the pale blond colour from our last meeting, was curled and piled up in some elaborate pinned-up style, together with the low cut of the dress favourably displaying her exquisite neck, and the sparkling diamonds on the choker necklace. It fitted her earrings, and when she turned around to greet me, I found the largest gem, a teardrop-shaped diamond, resting in the hollow of her throat.

All in all, she was not at all out of place amidst her Victorian dream.

She smiled at me, and slowly smoothed the right glove up her arm. It was a full-length one, reaching past her elbow. I had the sudden urge to help her. Her cherry red lips curved into a more wicked expression, as if she knew what I thought.

"You look magnificent."

"Of course."

She said it in a careless sort of way, never expecting anything else. I guess she would hear it all the time.

"Let's see you, then. I should hope you are not planning to wear _that_ at the banquet."

_That_ was my Auror cloak. I grinned.

"Of course not."

I took off my cloak, folding it over my arm, to reveal the fruits of my last-minute shopping trip. I wore a neon pink robe, covered with bright yellow moons and stars, and a matching hat, which I revealed now. If I might say so myself, I had outdone myself.

Her mouth opened. She stared at me, then at the hat, then back at the robes again. Then she closed it; very, very slowly.

"_What_ are you wearing?"

Her voice was soft. The wrong kind of soft.

I grinned at her. "You like it? I thought you might appreciate the Dumbledore style. Look, I think the stars are even mo-uh-oh – moving-"

Her eyes had narrowed, a dangerous glint appeared and there we went. Thunderstorm over the Downs. With a short flick of her yew wand that I'd no idea where it came from, she'd gathered her train and risen.

"I will not be mocked," she hissed. "Not from you and not from anyone!"

The smile vanished from my face in an instant.

"And I don't appreciate people manipulating me, making decisions for me and telling me what I can and cannot do, _Daphne_."

"You will learn to live with it."

I stared at her, open-mouthed. I was running out of words to describe her boundless arrogance.

"Now go change your attire. I will be waiting. You have five minutes, and so help me, if you are not wearing proper robes befitting my station, then _I will dress you myself._"

Somewhere in-between her speech, her wand had changed position and the tip of the darkly gleaming wood was now pointing at me.

"Move!"

My own wand was in my hand in a flash.

"Do it," I hissed. "I would love to see who is the better duellist. I haven't had a real challenge in years."

So maybe I wanted the fight. And maybe she knew it; standing next to her chair, staring at me, and firing without warning and without incantation. All I had were my instincts, honed in years of fighting and escaping Voldemort, telling me to duck down and roll to the right as her wrist snapped up. A barrage of muddy brown spells went past my left side and ripped away the upper half of the closed door behind me. The jagged edges glowed in an eerie light. Dark Magic at its finest. Had I remained standing, I'd now be the proud owner of a fresh, head-size hole instead of a heart, which would slowly eat away the rest of my body until nothing was left. Lovely. Someone didn't care for restraint.

My avoidance had thrown me right into her next attack, however. Anticipating my movements, she had sent a second curse to follow up. I just barely brought my shield up in time, the spell glanced off, dissolving the ornamented chair in front of the dressing table into a tiny pile of black, rotten sawdust. I tried to roll away, but something kept me where I was. The next spell tore a broad, inch-deep gash across the carpet directly below my throat – only because I managed to jerk my head away at the last instant. I felt the air fizzle next to my skin.

The bitch was trying to behead me. What the hell?

I twisted my head backwards to see what trapped me on the ground and stared in disbelief at an angry red patch of the woven carpet that was _fused to my body_. I couldn't tell where skin and robes started and cloth ended. And the red was spreading, creeping up towards my wand arm, strands wriggling like tiny enchanted snakes –

Well, _of course_.

I tried various spells to cancel charms and lucked out with third, rolling sideways behind the dressing table just before a shower of ugly, pulsating yellow spheres gauged smouldering craters into the precious carpet where I'd been stuck moments before. Dark Magic and Charms – an extravagant combination. In her hands, it turned deadly. Bloody hell, she was _good_.

However, I was better. A spell shattered the mirror above my head and I jumped back to my feet, banishing the shards at her instantly, following up with a bone crushing hex aimed at her head. She swatted away that spell like an annoying bug. It hit the taboret to her right in a loud crash, reducing it to splinters, which pelted her side.

For a second, she was distracted and that was the opening I needed. I fired two blasting curses at her in rapid succession, gaining the upper hand. They impacted on her shield, and I realised that she never moved out of any spell's way, instead solely relying on creating a magical defence. I started chaining my spells, pressing my advantage. I could keep this up for a minute, perhaps, before my concentration slipped and she'd be allowed a free shot, but that was all the time I needed. She couldn't get any offensive spell off now, and defending against me meant all but a very selected handful of people had already lost.

I drove her back quickly until she bumped against her bed and could move no further. Deflected spells ripped away layers of the wall behind her in a constant stream, the impacts creating thunderous sounds that shook the room with their blasts. The air smelled of burnt wood and hot iron. Oily black smoke rose from the smouldering carpet.

One of my spells grazed her as her shield wavered, and a fine red line appeared across her neck, from the diamond on her necklace up. Then I was there. The shield collapsed, my final curse went wide, violently tearing off the bedpost instead of her head, and I tackled her, my hand clamped around her left wrist, until she had to drop her wand. She stumbled backwards, dragging me with her, and we ended up on the large bed, I on top of her, nothing between us but two thin layers of cloth. She stared at me, expressionless.

For a second, neither of us moved. The wand clattered on the ground. Silence. Then I noticed a few things.

Her body pressed against mine, soft and curvy. Her breath tickling my neck, while a hand rested on the bare skin of my arm, creating a sudden jolt racing down my spine like an electric shock. She couldn't possibly have missed it.

Oh fuck it all.

Her expression remained blank for a little while longer. Then, a slow smile spread over her face. And it was clear, so clear, that our positions didn't matter a bit, and having her in shackles under me wouldn't have changed a thing. She wrapped her legs around me and wriggled a little, experimentally, completely at ease, smiling satisfied at the reaction it got her. I was suddenly beaten and I knew it; my earlier victory in the duel nothing but pyrrhic.

"How very extraordinary." The purr of her voice that reached my ears held hints of laughter. "So headstrong. So difficult, nonconformist and dominant. And yet I need but to do this …"

Her hand rose up to my face, and the soft leather of her gloves brushed over my skin, fingers ghosting over my cheek, touching the edge of my lips, falling lower, down to my chin.

"… and all of that crumbles …" Her voice was a whisper now, and her lips were far too close. And at that moment, I had finally enough of her teasing.

I closed the last remaining distance and kissed her, hard.

Her eyes flew open and there was a fire in all that grey, the passion I felt as she returned the kiss, roughly, one hand at my back, the other suddenly tangled in my hair, pulling me closer almost painfully; an equivalent of fury remaining unvented from earlier.

Kissing her was the thrill of unknown danger in the night, her lips cool on mine, perfect, tempting like a ripe red fruit in the deepest winter; tasting a little bitter, a shard of bitter ice, just the right amount, like almonds or dark chocolate perhaps, and burning me in the way the bitterest frost does on your bare skin. Not sweet, never sweet. I didn't want sweet. And that was why I was here, and not somewhere else, anywhere else; and drinking my bitter and savoury poison with abandon.

Finally, I pulled back, staring at her under me, breathing heavily. I felt like having run for a mile, but she stared at me heavy-liddedly and there was little red flushed onto her cheeks too.

So at least I was not the only one affected here.

A tie, then. Worked for me. I stood up; she composed herself, saying nothing, simply rearranging her dress and healing the cut on her neck. With a few flicks of her wand, she looked as pristine as when I had arrived. I stared at her, suspiciously. Was there a glint of triumph hidden in all that cool grey?

She cast down her eyes and smiled.

She couldn't possibly have planned for me to arrive in outrageous clothes, leading to a duel, leading to ... _this_. Or could she? Somehow, she always managed to make me feel as if she meant to have happen exactly what did happen.

I glared at her. She winked at me, calling her House-Elf and ordering it briskly to restore the destroyed bedroom while she was away or else. Then she turned to me, beckoning me to the door, neon pink robes and all. She was way too upbeat and satisfied for my taste.

When I came up to her, she inclined her head.

"Very well, my angry, rebellious escort." It moved only fractionally, in what looked like the barest beginning of a bow. "I accept your challenge. This time, you are victorious."

The teasing tone was unmistakeable. Just another part of the game. Of course she would make it so. Just for a second, I hated the excitement I felt at that thought.

"You don't know what you are doing, Daphne." My voice was rough.

Her eyes sparkled in the soft light of her bedroom.

"Don't I, Harry? Or perhaps I like it?"

She offered me a smile and her left arm, before I could come up with a response.

"Let us go. I shall greatly look forward to this evening."

* * *

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_Namistar: you do know that I update twice per week, or did I misunderstand your review? I'm sorry for the slight delay by the way, everyone._


	11. Chapter 11

–––**CHAPTER 11–––**

**A**T THE END of Diagon Alley, flanking a square behind two rows of stately elm trees, stood Charing House.

It was a grand building from the late 17th century, a fine specimen of the English Baroque, built by Lord Stoddard Withers, the famous breeder of flying horses; but a manor of that name had stood there since the 1200s. It had been the centre of the little village of Charing, back when London had ended at the River Fleet, and Westminster was still a separate entity. Or at least, that was what the ornate text on the menu said – since it was a restaurant, a very exclusive one, called _The Golden Cross_. The Ministry banquet was held here every year, and by now I knew the page describing the history by heart.

Daphne and I had appeared on Diagon Alley, opposite to _Twilfitt & Tatting's_; and started to slowly cross the small courtyard, which was illumed by multicoloured floating lampions, as the sky was slowly turning dark pink and blinking with the first stars. The light from the lampions dipped the usually light yellow masonry into dramatic shadows, playing with the rusticated stone and the columns and jutting and turrets.

We were not the only ones to arrive; from all directions, people Apparated and flocked to the principal block with the entrance portal. Everyone who was something, had something or did something would be here tonight. The Minister, the owner of the Nimbus Broom Company, the singer of that new group the _Daily Prophet_ hyped, and of course, all the old purebloods.

In contrast to that, everyone who was _not_ here was a nobody. And for a second, I wondered if I would have liked to be one, like I had so often in the past; and involuntarily turned my head towards Daphne, who was on my arm, elegant and beautiful, looking at me with her enigmatic smile … and only felt resignation, as I realised I no longer could answer that question.

The wizards and witches all drawn to the entrance of Charing House quickly formed a small queue, reaching back to the elaborate cross that stood in the middle of the courtyard; the origin of the restaurant's name. It had been moved here from the Muggle side in the 17th century.

Daphne didn't even pause and walked right past the line of waiting wizards and witches. There were a few angry mutters and glares, and I couldn't hide a grin as she seemed to revel in them, daring anyone to speak up against us and finding that no one would. Well, what a surprise.

In all honesty, I wasn't at all inclined to discourage her. I wasn't here because I wanted to. The very least I could expect if I was forced to attend was no waiting time to enter the damn thing.

o ] [ o

We had already entered the large, drawn-out entrance hall, that always reminded me a little of a cathedral what with the high ceiling and the rows of piers on either side – the cloakroom was beyond them, on the left – when there was a commotion at the entrance. Shouts sounded over from the doors, urgent, alarmed. I craned my neck.

"What's going on there?"

Daphne gave a miniscule shrug.

"They will deal with it, whatever it is, I assume. Coming?"

"I'm curious," I said, already turning around.

She sighed impatiently.

"Is that really necessary, Harry?"

I looked at her.

"I _am_ still an Auror, you know."

She looked annoyed and I didn't care. She seemed to realise that as well.

"I'll wait for you at the cloakroom." Her voice was decidedly cool.

I shrugged and pushed my way back through the constant stream of people still entering Charing House, mumbling apologies where I stepped on shoes. If Daphne thought she had me wrapped around her dainty fingers merely because I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was in for a surprise. I went along with her whims exactly as far as they were my own. If she took that to mean I was tame, it was her problem.

The noise was coming from outside, and it was shouts, or perhaps chants. "Need help?" I asked one of the servants in their gold-green robes that were placed on either side of the doors to check people's invitations. He was currently setting off some sort of messenger spell and looked up when I arrived, somewhat distracted.

"Oh – Mr. Potter – no, we can handle them. If you would just go inside and enjoy your evening – oh _bloody hell_ –"

He was obviously eager to get me back inside, but at that moment, someone had tried to storm into the building past him. He was thrown back outside by a repelling charm from the second doorwizard.

Curiously, I peeked past him. There was a small group of people with banners and flashing signs, consisting of not more than fifty wizards and witches. The colour on the signs was all I needed to know. Red, they were BMRs, members of the Brigade for Muggleborn Rights.

They shouted their anger against the purebloods that held all power into the night, and the guests stopped for long enough to look at them scandalised and shake their heads. And one of the restaurant staff went outside, to try to get them to leave without force, while they simply shouted him down, when he informed them that they were welcome to visit the restaurant anytime, just not today since it was completely booked, and he missed that this was their point, and they missed that they were standing on private ground, and one shouted: "We have just as much right to be here!"

There were cheers; and then, the first uniformed wizard pushed me back inside, and I didn't resist.

"This was what Harry Potter fought against," shouted another from the crowd, behind me. "This pureblood supremacy –"

And perhaps it was and perhaps I had, and perhaps I failed. Or perhaps they all were wrong and all I ever wanted was Voldemort dead for no other reason than that he killed my parents. So perhaps I should have fought harder, or perhaps not at all, or perhaps _who the fuck knew_.

And inside Daphne commanded the staff around like servants to take her cloak and take care not to wrinkle it, and they, in turn, did likewise with the House-Elves whom they handed the garments, sparing them no thoughts beyond their work, and so it continued, nothing had changed; and outside declared the people that I would never have stood for this, and if anything, all either did was making me want to just leave and never look back. _Harry Potter would not have stood for this._

My life in a sentence, or was that _as_ a sentence? – and _perhaps_ I was tired of being responsible for it all, and trying to change a world whose majority _did not want any change_.

So failure _had_ always included lure, and so it _was_ standing next to me, feminine, beautiful and waiting. Who would dare accuse me? And perhaps I had fallen for it and _perhaps_ I did not care. Not now – or not anymore?

_Or perhaps who the fuck knew._

And when she extended her hand, and it gripped mine and I felt her fingers weaving through mine, all soft and smooth leather from her gloves, I turned around, and walked inside with her, amidst the other purebloods and dignitaries.

And if that was failure, it had never felt so sweet.

o ] [ o

"Your cloak, sir?"

The voice was quiet, unobtrusive. One of the liveried servants had appeared on our side, out of nowhere like a shadow, moving with quiet efficiency, the kind you only get after years of practice. I looked at the green cap on his short sandy blond hair, at his face, at him. He couldn't have been older than thirteen.

Some children went to Hogwarts when they turned eleven. He started to work.

He repeated the question – polite, just the right inflection, conveying warm welcome and his willingness to help, that it would be his pleasure, if only we told him how. A first class restaurant with a well-trained, well-mannered service.

I gave him my cloak and he slunk away again, still and obsequious. My eyes tracked his small form until he vanished between the milling people like a House Elf in human form, never drawing any notice to himself, and of course far too polite to even mention my neon pink attire. I needed someone else. He would never do anything else. Maybe he'd be chief cloak-fetcher in a few years.

I scanned the crowd for a better target, while Daphne shook hands. People came up to say a few words, thank me for my defeat of Voldemort. They didn't work either, because they were trying to suck up to us, although they did stare. The solution came in form of Lysandra Yaxley. I steered us straight into her path, and leant back to watch the fireworks.

o ] [ o

Lysandra Yaxley was a brainless ditz and happy to be useful for me, even if she didn't know it. She looked horrified at my robes – and turned to Daphne.

"What _is_ he wearing? Pink? And is this a pointed _hat_?"

Her friends started to titter. There was no movement on Daphne's face, only her hand started to clench my arm, catching it in a grip of steel.

"Entirely Daphne's choice," I said helpfully. "Especially the hat. I have no fashion sense whatsoever. Do you like it?"

Yaxley covered her mouth and looked at Daphne, shocked. Daphne's look was pure venom. The other girls were chattering away in delight at this new revelation, and for me, all that was left were her stormy eyes in all their unmitigated grey, trying to skewer me, trying to hide her seething fury and failing. I was pretty sure she entertained murder fantasies currently. It made me happy.

_Revenge, bitch._

My perfect little moment was cut short when she jerked me to the side.

"This isn't over yet, Harry."

Her voice was strained, uneven, and if that wasn't enough to speak volumes of her efforts to control herself, there were still her fingers that clenched around my wrist tightly enough to bruise and wished it'd be my neck instead. I smiled at her and extracted myself from her grip, leaving to get some Champagne. I deserved a reward. Plus, I'd paid for it with my taxes so it was mine. Goddamnit.

o ] [ o

For a while, I simply watched Daphne from the corner, observing the fruits of my labour.

Lysandra and her friends had swarmed out and so had the news; creating the first scandal of the evening. People whispered and pointed and were scandalised. You did _not_ dress up in anything but the latest – or at least, generally accepted – fashion trend set by Glennine Gladrags or one of the other renowned dress-makers to the most anticipated event of the year. The looks I, and more importantly, Daphne, received were plain as day.

This reaction had been as easy to predict as the addition of porcupine quills to a potion before turning off the heat. Both simply exploded. The trick had been to direct it towards Daphne. And that, I thought while glancing in her direction gleefully, had worked like a charm.

Daphne was surrounded by people. Well, she usually would be, I guess; she seemed certainly used to it, and she was definitely the type to like occasions like these, with their typical mixture of politics, personal power plays and the same old Vanity Fair you always had when the entire high pureblood society was gathered in one place. She was in the thick of it, always the centre of attention, seeking it, thriving in it – the spoilt child that grew up but never stopped wanting for the limelight, the little princess that stood there so pleased and asked _Am I not beautiful?_

Fortunately for her, maybe, she had the means to expand on it and the talent to exploit it. She was one of those people that created a presence the moment they entered a room, she drew all of us to herself immediately, almost by an invisible force; and if the reasons were different, the outcome was the same. Wherever she moved, people would crowd around her, basking in her presence, and she, in turn, would be entirely vain enough to like and even desire still the most mindless admiration. I'd seen it all before.

The difference _now_ was that the attention had nothing to do with her charms and was entirely negative. The erstwhile admirers readily turned around and left her, and where she went herself, she had to endure remarks about her deplorable fashion sense. She had been thoroughly embarrassed. Short of deftly kicking her out of these circles entirely, I don't think there was something that would cut her more. I mentally congratulated myself.

Of course, she didn't leave it at that. She wouldn't have been herself if she swallowed the jibes just like that, especially not after I'd unleashed her fury already with the scene I'd made before. The people were paying for it now. Her tongue was vicious; she cut through the groups of wizards and witches like a carving knife, venting her rage on anyone unlucky enough to catch her attention. Conversation with her became an assault of pointed remarks, barbs that were always just a bit too malicious to be funny, with their unerring aim and her calculating delivery.

She had a talent to both find the spots that really hurt and wrap her venom in honeyed politeness, to present it with the sweetest of smiles, so that it never broke decorum yet conveyed her message quite clearly. Their failures, weaknesses, flaws – Daphne became a gleaming golden, merciless mirror of inadequacy.

It certainly didn't endear her to anyone; but then I doubted she had been much liked – in the meaning of the word absent around here – before. She was nice, because anyone of wealth and status was nice by definition, and she had friends, because no correlation between friends and people you liked beyond the fact that they were _nice_ was needed or even expected. She didn't have people that seemed particularly close to her, and I was certain she had never wanted any, because she held a casual disregard for almost everyone that spoke volumes of how she considered herself above them. Friends, for Daphne, were people that were useful. That was all.

Much rather, I thought while watching her converse with a tight-lipped, stately wizard, whose mouth could only have formed a certain word with _b_ when she turned away, she was bound to have lots of enemies, especially among her _friends_ – people on whose toes she'd stepped one too many times, people she'd pushed out of the way while rising up in the social order, people that envied her the success, her looks, or both, people that simply couldn't stand her; as it usually is. You weren't in a position like hers, and with her character, without having made enemies.

But something told me she was quite aware of that and I honestly wondered whether she cared. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the dislike and jealousy, as much as she did the admiration – maybe it was the look in her eyes I caught now and then, the curious gleam indicating something like excitement as she parried the attacks born from resentment and pure hate; she was never better, in any case, than when high pureblood society became a dragon's lair.

Her response was to ride and poke the dragons; she created a sheer firework of gross insults delivered as polite, backhanded compliments, always ready to respond, never at a loss for an answer, testament of her wit and her quick mind.

It was a game. It was _her_ game.

It was what she liked and what she was like, and she certainly wasn't going to change merely because it repelled people in secret. Having been ridiculed made her simply more obnoxious than ever, vain, spoiled, arrogant, vindictive, supercilious towards her peers, and cruel to those beneath her, as if to taunt them with the fact that despite it all, despite her unpleasantness and ugly behaviour, they still came to her, even now. People were there, charmed by her elegance, by her beauty or charisma, or maybe attracted to her forceful nature that whispered _this is the way I am and I don_'_t care what you think_ and _wouldn_'_t you like to be half as self-assured as I am_; drifting over like a Siren's song and creating this strange force that affected all all of us and blinded not too few, when they really should have known better.

The servant boy with one of the floating trays, for example; a desolate figure, staring at this woman, hopelessly out of his league, and trying to gain her attention so desperately in spite. And so he did it in the only way he knew how, offering her something to drink, trying to catch a smile, a look; a short little instance where he was allowed to dream that she was looking into _his_ eyes and the smile meant for him only. I knew she had noticed him when she laughed – at him, not for him – and then proceeded to set him up, nurturing his hopes, in order crush them minutes later with a vicious smile.

Yes, that was Daphne. It was there for everyone who wanted to see it. And I recalled what I knew about her, what Sterling Greengrass had told me, finding a perfect match; and wondered how many of them truly knew what she was like and ignored it or didn't care, and how many were just blind.

And I wondered if I truly belonged into the former category, or if I might have a blind spot myself.

o ] [ o

All those people seemingly still hadn't been enough to cool her rage, though. I pushed myself away from the wall, meandering over slowly as I saw her approaching another couple.

The girl looked pretty, in a very fragile way; like a Chinese vase maybe, one of those crafted out of porcelain so thin you could almost look through it – and not actually useful for anything besides looking at it. She had fine blonde hair, which she had partially braided, the braids artfully looped around her head into a crown. It suited her, the way her light blue eyes suited her – topaz blue, I thought, like the colour of a shallow bay during the clearest days in summer.

He was two heads taller, dark hair, handsome enough, but with a small scar on his cheek. They looked happy together.

But when she laid eye on Daphne – just for a second, her expression became hateful. Her posture stiffened, screaming aversion. And that was what Daphne was heading for purposefully.

"You!" the girl hissed. Her escort looked at her warily, putting a hand on hers, in a placating way. I noticed the thin golden ring on her left hand ring finger and the lack of a matching one on his. Apparently Daphne had as well. She arched her eyebrows.

"Engaged already?"

He nodded pleasantly, if not a bit warily.

"Just the other night. The wedding will be held in October."

"Is that so?" she purred, offering her a predatory smile as the young woman bristled visibly at her tone, but held her tongue. "A wedding is it now, really. Aiming rather high, are we, little girl?"

That had been too much. The girl clenched her fists and shrugged off his hand, taking a step towards Daphne. I thought her eyes lit up as she got what she wanted.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Her outburst turned not a few heads. Her partner put his arm around her shoulder again, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"It is alright, love." He tugged at her sleeve. "Come, Sarah."

He turned around, walking off with her, but she was having none of it and tore free.

"How can you just walk away when that snake insinuates Merlin knows what, Eugene?" Then she rounded on Daphne. "And you – that you even dare speak to us – after – after –"

"Yes?"

Daphne looked at her, but the girl spoke no more. Her blue eyes, clouded in anger, glanced at her fiancé, standing quite a way off, clearly not wanting to have any part in the argument. Not exactly the most gallant behaviour. She noticed it as well, and in the end, faltered. She stared angrily at Daphne, who eventually gave a short, elegant shrug and a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her look at Sarah was cold and contemptuous.

"Nothing? A piece of advice, then. Things are different here. It is a large step from the daughter of a muggleborn shop assistant to the wife of a notable pureblood family. Take care not to stumble."

She turned away from the enraged girl, whose pretty face was twisted in anger. The fiancé was backing away even further.

"You are a horrible, hateful creature," she hissed. "I hope you choke on it all."

Daphne turned her head and stared at her, lips slightly curled in condescension or disgust, before a razor sharp smile appeared on her face.

"You had best follow him. After all, you are not yet his wife. It would be a pity if you displeased him and he changed his mind now, after all that work you put into it, yes?"

Sarah flushed scarlet in embarrassment, and Daphne left her standing there, walking over to me.

"There you are." She came up to my side and smiled at me. "I almost thought you'd deserted me."

"I was busy watching you degrading a stupid servant and tearing down a little girl. Feel any better now?"

"You have an uncanny ability to be highly irritating, Harry." She put an arm around me, and we continued roaming through the foyer. "So don't blame a girl for a little stress relief." Her smile was too satisfied and I wondered what I was missing. "What I find far more interesting is that watching was all you did. You sure have changed, Harry. You'd been all in my face about it, once."

"I also thought it would have made a difference, once."

"Yes, and today you're only cynical," she sighed, and stopped walking. "I'll need to have something to drink, I think."

"The waiter is over there."

I pointed to one of the floating trays the emerged from the stone wall, the waiter following suit behind it, leaving the tray to hover inches above the palm of his hand. Daphne darted me a sidelong glance through her dark lashes, artfully curled in a way that told me all about how well-practised that look was. "Get me a glass?"

It was the one look to send half the population on the planet scurrying.

"Go get it yourself." I stared impassively at her outraged expression. I might not have cared much about her behaviour regarding others, but she sure as hell wasn't going to try it with me. "Do I look like your personal servant?"

One of the men next to us turned around, throwing me an reproachful look.

"Allow me fetch it for you, Madam."

He was fairly young, well-dressed in dark robes with a silver trim and a small beard, neatly groomed around his mouth. He signalled to the waiter and returned moments later with a glass, which he handed her with a small bow.

"There you are."

He received a smile for his trouble and then was all smiles himself, before he finally nodded, and slowly walked away. I saw the amusement in her face. He missed it. I had no problems helping him out.

"Well, there's another loser."

"Don't be so hard on him, Harry," Daphne tutted. "He's just a man."

"He's the proverbial doormat. If _you_ asked him to, he'd probably polish your shoes. With his tongue. So where the hell is the difference between him and that servant earlier? I see none."

Daphne threw her head back and laughed loudly. It was a genuine laugh and she was one of those people that managed to still look beautiful all the while.

"Oh, this is why I wanted you here." Her eyes glinted in amusement. "_That_ was the son of the undersecretary you just insulted."

She took a sip and stared mirthfully at the boy, who now sported red ears, and hastily moved away from us.

"Yes, admittedly, it does get boring after a while. Another reason I am quite pleased with you, my obnoxious barbarian escort. You are an extraordinarily intriguing exception to the rule. So far."

I chose to ignore the last part and the gong signalling the imminent dinner came to my rescue. She placed the glass she'd barely touched carelessly on one of the floating trays where it vanished instantly, and we made our way to the back of the queue that was slowly forming in front of the broad doors leading into the dining hall.

o ] [ o

I stood in the queue, bored. There was no skipping line this time, because we were required to enter last. We were the guests of honour, the stars of the evening. The war hero and sponsor-in-name-only of this event, and the beautiful and rich high-society pureblood. A match made in heaven for the papers. I was pretty sure I'd already seen Rita and her Quick-Quotes Quills around, and that girl from Witch Weekly had been staring at us with big eyes as well. It'd be the topic for weeks.

Finally, the doors opened for us. Our names were announced, we stepped inside, the chamber orchestra played a march and there was a thunderous applause. Flashbulbs went off.

The dining hall was draped with velvety green curtains; behind the tall windows blinked the lights of the park that surrounded the manor. All throughout, tables for about a dozen persons each were dotted, covered by white cloths, with goblin silverware and candlesticks. The floor of the room was chequered marble, but of some magical kind – the black was so deep it looked as if there literally was _nothing_ under your feet, while the white looked like blocks of stone rising up from the middle of the earth itself; causing people to inadvertently step solely on the white planes, the first time they were here. I hadn't ever seen marble like this anyplace other than in this room. It ended at a large floor-length curtain, that currently separated the far half of the hall from this one, which would later be used to dance.

Across the curtain, a large banner was fixed, reading in broad, gold lettering:

_4__th__ Anniversary_

_Defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_

_August 19__th_

Yes, they had written He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named onto that thing. While we crossed the length of the room, every eye was on us. People were standing and staring, some bowed, others cheered; yet others clapped politely and looked decidedly cool. Not everyone was happy to see me walking into this room on this date, possibly in Voldemort's stead.

Sarah had transferred her glare from Daphne to me. Most likely because I was _the_ Harry Potter and here with her personal enemy. Well, tough luck. I didn't give a damn about what most people thought, and she could fight her own battles. I had, too.

My place, and thus Daphne's, was at the table directly under the banner; where the most important of the important were seated. I could only imagine the bitter fights that had to have taken place behind the scenes to get one of those twelve places. For people that were not me, this was the highlight of the year. My look roamed the across the already occupied chairs. I knew all of them, didn't care about most, and felt like greeting none.

Somewhere down the way I also saw Kingsley, his face with far more lines than I could remember. He looked aged; worn down and weary, like a man who had fought too many battles. His term as a Minister had been a constant struggle, and it had left marks. I respected him more than ever. He did the best he could, every day anew.

But I didn't want to end up like him.

We sat down, and the eating stuff part was finally about to begin. The chairman of the organising committee, who more likely than not would have found himself at the business end of my wand four anniversaries ago, glanced at me, trying to see if I wanted to say something.

No, I didn't.

So he spoke a few words of his own, thanked me, thanked himself, and then an army of servants stepped forward, each carrying a small velvety cushion.

No wands at the table. It was the old customs that were kept alive here, of course, but I think there were a few people that weren't sad to see my wand go. Not that it mattered, because I was entirely paranoid enough to place a transfigured stick on my cushion, one that I always carried with me. I wasn't about to be caught wandless in between ex-Death Eaters and their relations.

For that was where I found myself. Down the table to my left sat Stewart and Selena Selwyn, nephew and niece of the Death Eater who told everyone who wanted to hear it how he had started to fight the Imperius Curse of Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, where no one had seen him. Then there was Lysandra Yaxley, diagonally opposite from us. Her old man had already fought in the first war for Voldemort, and since he'd suffered a heart attack meanwhile, he spent the rest of his days in comfortable house arrest instead of Azkaban.

And, of course, somewhere to my right was the old Avery, Malcolm, the deputy editor at the _Prophet_, who as opposed to Yaxley was very vigorous and never had been one of the first followers of the young Tom Riddle.

Yes, that's where we were seated, here on this table in my honour – twelve people from the most notable families of Britain, among them ex-Death Eaters and more relatives, sitting together with me and celebrating my victory over Voldemort. Some were decent. Others were not. All of them were conservative purebloods. No one tried to kill me.

They sat here, and I sat there, and everyone knew what they and their relatives had done, and what I'd done to them, and nobody mentioned it. We ate Diricawl breast and drank elf made-wine, talked about Quidditch and recent developments in Charms. And I had stopped minding in any other way than that it was kinda boring, because fuck, I was tired of worrying, for the world, for the poor Sarah's, for my _life_.

Maybe that wasn't as surprising as it sounded. Maybe this should have been what anyone should have expected as the best of all possible outcomes, in the best of all possible worlds. Voldemort was gone. His followers were not. His ideals were not. And yet, the world was different from when he was there. A tiny little bit. No one tried to kill me. As I said.

In this world, it was in vogue to praise the Boy-Who-Won, and so this table praised me. A small price to pay if everything else remained the same for those who wanted it to. Their influence. Their wealth. Their ideology, blood fanaticism and prejudices.

So three cheers for everyone's new world. Everything is better, except it's still the same. A couple of speeches and an idealist's dream that shattered on the rocks of reality later, they're back where they started, and that wouldn't ever change, for even a new world is still made up of the old people.

Because there aren't any other.

* * *

_**Review!**_

_****Sorry for the long absence, by the way - a mixture of this chapter having a scene I needed to rewrite and RL stuff getting in the way of that. We're back to schedule now, though, next update is Saturday :)_


	12. Chapter 12

–––**CHAPTER 12–––**

**L**YSANDRA Yaxley was getting on my nerves.

She sat across from Daphne and talked to her. And considering that Daphne sat next to me, I had to listen to her chatter between magical and other delicacies. With the Diricawl, they had delicate silver Ramora roe, and even tiny nibbles of the nearly extinct Re'em, which tasted great, but did not help to distract Yaxley. She talked about clothes, about hairdos and most importantly, she _delighted_ in talking about her new boyfriend. And now I had enough.

"It's a shame Adolphus couldn't make it," she was sighing. "I do wish he could have come, but he _is_ very busy – everyone wants him to sing at some event or another, he is so popular –"

"Daphne," I said. "Shut the airhead up or I do it."

A few people gasped and looked at me, scandalised. Daphne concealed a laugh that threatened to escape with a cough. And Lysandra continued as if she hadn't heard me. Which was possible enough, she was most likely listening to herself. Daphne shook her head and swallowed what she had in her mouth.

"Her boyfriend is a singer," she then remarked. Lysandra nodded resolutely, but before she could get another word in, Daphne continued, with a look into my direction. "Adolphus Vialis. Ever heard of him, Harry?"

"Can't say that I have, no."

Daphne took a sip of her wine, then glanced at her and smiled.

"Me neither."

The drink I'd just taken went down the wrong pipe, which was supposedly better than across the table. I tried not to laugh, because I needed to breath, while Lysandra flushed, mumbling something unpleasant and glaring at Daphne. The most important result though was that she noticeably lost interest in talking.

All in all though, the dinner was pretty enjoyable, strangely enough. Daphne could be a great conversationalist if she wanted to, quick-witted and with a hidden sense of humour. It went a long way of getting herself back into at least this company's good graces, and it might have been the first time I actually enjoyed the banquet. Not even Robards' presence could spoil it. I still didn't know how he had gotten a seat on this table, but he was sitting next to the Selwyns. Probably traded a favour.

Dessert eventually came and the talk had shifted to politics. Daily agenda, international relations, plans and proposals – it all happened here, just as it most often is; few decision were made in official places, instead deals were cut, alliances forged and broken behind the scenes. I guess that was unavoidable when you had most of the top politicians in one place. I had counted three Department Heads including Stewart Selwyn, the chairmen of the Hogwarts Board of Governors as well as the one from the League of Magic, the political platform of the purebloods, and the vice-president of the Business Owner's Association. I was sure there were more.

And so, the talk circled around things to come. There was the post of a Commissioner for Muggleborn Affairs, a tribune, elected for and by them. I thought it was a decent idea. Selwyn thought it wasn't. He spent minutes ranting about it until even Daphne had enough.

"It's not coming. Stop being so exceedingly boring, Stewart. You are putting the entire table to sleep."

Oh, and it wasn't coming. Did I forget to mention that?

He looked at her darkly, and I could almost feel the moment he picked a new target. "The point is that Calvin even proposed it, when what we need is less government, not more. Take you, for example, Mr. Potter, and the Aurors. The numbers are quite ridiculous, and the money they cost us even more so."

As if he were paying taxes.

"There hasn't been an war-related arrest the entire last year, so quite obviously, there are no more Death Eaters around. Some people might even say you are … dispensable."

And some people were entirely too smug.

"I'm talking about your so-called Task Force, naturally."

Naturally. Daphne looked at me with an expectant expression. I eyed Robards, who scowled as he noticed me looking at him. Perhaps we could kill two birds with one spell.

"Oh, Robards is inventing work, in fact."

His expression became furious, and I leant back comfortably, looking at the still-grinning Selwyn.

"One day, we got the file of a Death Eater. One of the tough guys. It was … well, actually, it had your name on it."

Selwyn's smug expression slipped from his face. His entire body seemed to freeze.

"I'm sorry?"

The table stopped collectively breathing, or so it seemed. I tried the pie, which was delicious. Selwyn appeared increasingly aggravated. Daphne raised an eyebrow, looking at me as I continued to eat my treat.

"Potter! What do you mean, it had my name on it? Are you saying that _I_ –"

I swallowed, looking up. Every eye was on me.

"Oh, what? No, not at all. Someone had spilled ink over it, and the cleansing charm messed up the order of the letters. It was really Tyson Westwell, not Stewart Selwyn."

Laughter, glasses raised towards me in toasts. Only a joke, a riposte to Selwyn. Yes, Death Eaters were a joking matter nowadays, of course they were. I had their approval. The mood shifted from uneasy and nervous to jovial, across the entire table – except for Daphne. The raised eyebrow stayed where it was, but now she was smiling. Of course she'd have noticed already. I waved down the acclamations.

"Yes, but that wasn't the point. Naturally, we went to arrest him. So we arrive at his house, and it's kinda small and in the middle of Leicester, with Muggle-electricity and all, and we think, well now, isn't this odd –"

I made a short, dramatic pause.

"Turns out Robards' big 'Death Eater' is a Muggleborn."

Robards' red face was almost as satisfying as the rich laughter at my side, echoing others, while the table slowly dissolved into multitudes of different conversation once more. She bent her head towards me.

"Well done, Harry. Bravo. Two targets, two twists, and all that only as a cover for the _real_ point. I knew you had it in you."

She smiled at me and brushed her lips against my cheek.

"I don't regret asking for your escort for a minute."

That was pretty much the highlight of this banquet and really any of the banquets so far, and who _cared_ that it turned into the same old dinner party after that, once the curtain at the back parted and everyone rose; people milling and dancing, talking too loudly or not really listening, clinging to their glasses like walking sticks to keep them upright even though the effect was the reverse, the further the evening progressed.

We got our wands back, cleaned and polished, which was quite pointless in both our cases. I now had a cleaned piece of wood. And the day Daphne went out with a wand that was not perfectly immaculate was the day she decided to live as a Muggle.

Eventually, Selwyn appeared. He stopped in front of us and stared at me. I waited.

"Tyson Westwell is no anagram of my name, Potter."

And there it was. His hands nervously worked the hem of his robes. His voice was tight.

"The _O_ and one _L_ is wrong."

I offered him my most insincere smile, before I turned around and walked off with Daphne to follow the others. My response came over my shoulder.

"Isn't it? How curious. But you have to agree that 'Tysan Westwerl' would sound quite ridiculous. Enjoy your evening, sir."

I saw him staring after us, his expression a mixture of puzzlement and anger, before I turned my head back around and left him behind, him and the entire stupid politics. There were far more important things tonight, like Daphne; Daphne who currently leant against me, re-donning her kidskin gloves after dinner was over. She slipped her fingers inside, closing the wrist buttons, and accepted with a smile the brilliant ring I had been holding for her, twirling it idly over the glove.

"Dangerous, Harry. All but declaring that Stewart is a Death Eater?"

"You of all people would tell me about caution? Pot and cauldron, etcetera."

She looked at me amusedly.

"Indeed, I concede that. Life without risks just is awfully boring." She lifted her hand and wove her fingers through mine. "So in risk of incurring your wrath, I'll go and resume socialising. I fear I might have to soothe a few more ruffled feathers. I probably _was_ a little temperamental earlier."

And so I was treated to the amusing sight of Daphne charming her way through the pureblood high-society, weaving in and out between pretty dresses and elegant robes, floating above them all, flitting from here to there, being flocked to, all possible earlier slights seemingly forgiven readily. And finally, the servant boy was back as well, offering her drinks. She took one, and I watched as he scurried off, pleased.

"So people like to do you favours, then?"

"_Men_ like to do me favours," she corrected. Her finger traced the rim of her full glass pensively. The liquid had the same blood-red colour her nails had had. "You find that very surprising?"

I snorted.

"Not particularly."

"I thought not." She placed the drink on a table to her side. "Do you mind?"

She was almost impossible to read when she didn't want you to. She glanced at me, and I wondered what she was thinking right now. Maybe that this was how it was. There would always be someone to offer her drinks, to ask if he could help her out, to do her any conceivable favour.

I supposed I wouldn't mind. Because everyone who approached her that way in an attempt to get her attention had already lost it.

She suddenly shook her head. "Never mind. Feel like dancing?"

And her moods could change faster than her golden Snidget directions. From serious to playful in a matter of words and seconds, and neither state was artificial. She was what you meant when you said _capricious_, neither willing nor able to rein in on her impulses, instead acting on them with no inhibitions. She chased after whatever fancy struck her unconditionally, being as much a product of her moods as they were a part of her.

The strings played a slow dance. I thought I recognised the melody and gave into her newest turn; for now, for tonight; allowing myself to let go of my far too complicated thoughts and just drift along on the whitewater that was her life.

I nodded at her.

"You like Handel, then?"

Her eyebrows rose.

"Harry! Why, I would have never suspected it. You know things other than dastardly curses and names of Dark Lords? You are right, on both accounts. His take on the theme in the _Sarabande_ is one of my favourite versions. I admit, I am surprised. Pleasantly so."

She smiled at me and put an arm around me, walking us closer to the centre of the room. I started grinning.

"Well, don't bother. I didn't even know he existed until just now. I just remembered you humming the melody and asked one of the musicians earlier."

Daphne stopped and turned her head slowly, staring at me for a full five seconds. A slightly incredulous look crept on her face. Then she did something I never in a million years would have expected her to. She snorted.

"Do you mind terribly having a cultivated appearance, perchance? I think you are really going out of your way here."

"One does what one can."

I grinned. She sighed.

"You really do enjoy offending people, do you?"

"One of my greatest talents and favourite pastimes."

"And I would be correct to assume that you truly would be so horribly rude as to decline when asked for a dance by a lady?"

"Naturally."

Her grey eyes, usually stormy or cold, where for once quite calm; her look unreadable, but I detected a spark of amusement hidden deep within. Then she pulled me straight between the dancing couples.

"That's too bad."

She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me towards her, resting her head on my shoulder for a moment, before starting to move to the music and talking to me in this whisper her voice seemed made for.

"Because I've got a mind to dance, and I'm doing what I want."

We had this dance and the next few as well; and, surprisingly enough, I enjoyed this too. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse to have my arms around her; we danced and time seemed to rush by, and it was the first evening where I was actually glad to be there. And that, at the latest, should have been all warning I needed, because I was never glad to have been here once it was over; and so I should have seen it coming, if only because it was just too good to be true.

The strings finished a slow waltz and Daphne made a final twirl and dropped a curtsey, before she put an arm around me again and nodded towards the other side of the room, suddenly all businesslike again.

"Coming?"

I blinked, thrown off balance by the distance which was creeping back between the two of us, and not just the physical separation after the dance.

"To do what?"

And like a beautiful, delicate soap bubble that popped, the last remains of spell from the dance floor engulfing us and carrying us away into a dream just for ourselves vanished, made it suddenly just that, a dream; and this magical moment between two heartbeats was after all imaginary and not actually existent. Her face settled on a hard, unpleasant expression, and when I repeated my question, she displayed a smile that had nothing to do with her earlier humour. The look she sent across the ballroom was calculating and slightly impatient.

"To watch the girl fall."

o ] [ o

"So, Bobbin." It was the portly owner of the Daily Prophet whom we had headed to, something-Cuffe. He'd carried off a glass of some dusky red wine from dinner. "Heard the apothecaries aren't doing too well. Heard you had to sell. Financial trouble and all that."

He took a deep gulp out of his glass, and peered at the other man, who was the definition of average. I'd seen him around before, in his silver robes. Apparently, it was Thomas Bobbin, owner of the Bobbin & Bobbin Apothecaries. I'd never cared.

He froze and turned towards Cuffe slowly.

"Who told you that?"

Cuffe vaguely waved the hand without the glass in it.

"Malcolm heard it somewhere. So it's true, then?"

Bobbin coloured in anger. "Of course not! And if you dare write something to that effect –"

His voice was too loud. People in the crowded space around us turned their heads; next to me, a dark-haired man interrupted his conversation in order to stare at the two. Cuffe puffed himself up, pleased to be the centre of attention.

"Really, Bobbin, no need to shout. I was just asking." His tiny eyes adopted a sly look. "Though since we are talking, if there's nothing to it, who would spread that rumour, eh? That's a question. Might be interesting to know."

"I should think the answer to that is pretty obvious."

Daphne's voice cut smoothly through the conversation. Cuffe paused and focused his attention on her, and so did I, frowning; and the rest of maybe half a dozen people standing around us. When he turned towards us, I recognised the man next to me as the one from the engaged couple earlier. His face showed disbelief, maybe fear, then a furious expression. His arm darted past me, grabbing Daphne's wrist, clumsily trying to pull her over.

"You damn –"

"You might not want to finish that sentence right now, Yevgeny."

She cut off his hissed exclamation, soft enough only for the people closest to us to hear. What her words seemed to lack in volume, they seemed to make up for in meaning, as he stopped speaking. There was a hard edge to it as well, I thought.

His hand left her wrist and rose to the height of her face, suddenly holding his wand. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at him, until he dropped his arm and turned away, maybe having become aware of the audience that was watching with greedy interest, even though the exchange had barely lasted a ten seconds.

"It's Eugene."

"If you say so." Daphne put her arm around me, which earned me a dark look from the dark-haired fellow, and eyed the blonde girl next to him with distaste. "In any case, perhaps you should ask your dear fiancée what she babbled. I told you she can't keep her important parts shut."

The girl – Sarah – gasped. This was definitely on the wrong side of the line Daphne had been treading all evening. The silence that followed was profound. However, none of the people around us made an effort to intervene on her behalf either, which said just about all there was to say about her.

I looked around into the still faces and sighed.

"Daphne, is this really …"

I trailed off as I figured out the connection. Eugene had to be Eugene Bobbin, nephew of Thomas Bobbin, the man who had been talking to Cuffe. And she'd written to him. It had been his letters I'd read on her table; and it was her who Bobbin senior had signed over the majority on the company. What Cuffe had said was in fact true, but no one knew that. However, that meant only she could – that _Daphne_ was the one who –

My eyes widened. A raised eyebrow marked a silent question by Daphne into Bobbin's direction, and I stared at her, incredulously. The entire scene was her set-up, and Bobbin knew that, but couldn't accuse her of anything, unless he wanted to actually confirm the rumour.

Something passed between him and Daphne, and I saw the exact moment he accepted her offer. His eyes moved over to his supposed in-law. Cuffe had already turned towards Sarah as well, who was standing still next to her fiancé, looking slightly confused at the sudden attention. He smiled at her patronisingly, seizing her up like you would any other good on display for sale. The slight curl of his lips displayed the conclusion.

"Your own family, Bobbin? How embarrassing." His thick fingers slowly rotated the stem of his wine glass back and forth. "Perhaps she's not quite used to being around _important_ matters. Discretion isn't something you pick up while wrapping newt-eyes."

"I told you, there's nothing to it." Bobbin's eyes strayed from Cuffe to us – or probably Daphne – to Sarah. There was something akin to dislike in his look. "You know how they are. Making up stories all the time. Eventually, they all grow out of it."

I exhaled a soft breath. He was really going along with Daphne and using the girl as a scapegoat. Not nice at all, but like everyone, he would rather have his future in-law known as a liar than admit an ugly, potential truth. Pretence, pretence – it didn't matter whether you had money, fame or influence. It mattered whether people thought you had.

Apparently, this side of the world was new to Sarah. She stared at him wide-eyed, surprise mixed with hurt and anger.

I offered her a silent welcome. To the world of the rich and famous. To places where appearances mattered, because pretty pictures would be useless without audience. And to the harsh reality behind the glitzy surface, because people are people, and not better merely because they dress themselves in better clothes; only worse. A rude awakening from a fairy-tale dream, maybe. But then again, she needn't worry; you either became a part of it, or perished by it. That was how it worked.

In her, the anger won out. _Perish, then?_ Eugene Bobbin's hand caught her arm reflexively as she stepped forward, but she paid no heed. She pried off the fingers of her fiancé and exclaimed, "How can you say that? I never make up anything. I don't even know what you are talking about!"

Who's to blame for a beheading, the one fixing a blade neck-high across the floor or the one running with eyes wide _shut_?

Bobbin senior reddened rapidly. "Shut up," he hissed. "_Shut up!_"

"No, let her speak, Thomas." Daphne's voice had a hard, cold edge. "Let her tell her lies, let us all hear what she's got to say to the people who were generous enough to accept her into their family. Quite frankly, I don't know how you can stand it. You gave her more than she could ever hope for, and she repays it by talking behind your backs, with shameful gossip and deceit. It's a disgrace."

So there it was again; her ugly side, the one that would have her plunge a knife into an innocent's flesh, staring into their wide, fearful eyes, and then slowly twist it just to see the pain it brought. She was invoking her personal crusade, for some reason only known to herself bent on destroying the girl in the most permanent and public way possible. Gone was the last trace of the person I'd danced with, just minutes ago.

Sarah had covered her mouth with her hand, staring at Daphne. She made to speak, then said nothing, after all. It didn't matter. Nothing she could say now would make a difference.

She already was in pieces. The parts of her littered the ground like twisted and torn scraps of metal after a shelling, iridescent from the heat, only no one noticed. People didn't look down; they never did, far too busy admiring a pretty lie to see the flinders at their feet. Whether they suspected or cared was largely irrelevant; it wasn't the point. Even if that made it its own cause. Everything and everyone here was pretty, until someone decided you weren't. That was what being here was all about. And thus, you died prettily too, by polished words and a perfect smile, courtesy of the woman standing next to me, in an elegant dress, with a haughty expression that wasn't half the arrogance of her, and piercing grey eyes that never attempted to hide the cruelty inside.

I frowned. Suddenly, it bothered me. Funny that it would now, when it hadn't before, not really – I'd seen it before, in her, in others; I didn't know Sarah, didn't care what happened to her … or did I? She didn't deserve to have her life torn apart before her and everyone's eyes, but then again, lots of people didn't deserve lots of things, myself first and foremost included.

The root was elsewhere. Daphne, not Sarah; myself, not the others. Maybe it was born out of the crass difference to Daphne's earlier behaviour, and if not for the dance, I wouldn't have minded; maybe it was so much more pointed than before (though was it really?); whatever the cause, it wasn't the stupid, naïve, honest girl that still didn't know what was happening.

Only two people apart from Daphne really did. One had made a deal. And I … I was free to do whatever I wanted, to save the girl or sink her, as fancy would have it.

You didn't get that type of choice. Especially not I. Where was the catch?

"What is – Daphne, what is the meaning of this?" Before I could say anything, Eugene Bobbin had finally pulled himself together. He put a hand on Sarah's shoulder warningly. He must have found the situation dangerously close to spiralling out of control, but it was already beyond that point. At this stage, Daphne would have arranged for something only she herself needed to slide in place to finish him, Sarah or both, irrespective of anyone else.

"Whatever you heard, I'm sure that –"

"Not I."

"– it – what?"

He stared at Daphne, nonplussed and agitated. And suddenly, I had a bad feeling. My look went to Daphne as well, who looked far too pleased. There it was.

"_I _didn't hear your fiancée gossiping like a kitchen maid about bad finances. It was –"

"Potter heard her, I believe."

"_What?_"

I said hello to the karma that I had been missing all evening.

o ] [ o

The new arrival was Cuffe's 'Malcolm', Malcolm Avery, the deputy editor of the Daily Prophet, but that was entirely unimportant; just like Cuffe's self-important I-told-you-sos, and the various reactions by Bobbin and company. This was about two people, and two people only. Everyone else was just a bystander.

Their chatter faded into the background, irrelevant noise, flowing around us, but void of meaning. Slowly, I turned my head, just in time to catch Daphne's triumphant look. Her scheme, of course, in which Cuffe and the ex-Death Eater played roles she had assigned them, knowingly or not; her scheme that tried to break up a couple – but the real target was me, because I was to be her repute.

From what I gathered in passing, that part of it worked like a charm. There was something of a shift in the atmosphere at Avery's declaration. A moment of tense silence, a disquiet; spreading throughout the hall like ripples around a stone cast into a pond; and then something returned, as if reflected at the end. The constant buzz of talking changed a little, becoming more aggressive, hostile. Where people had been standing in groups around us, it now became a circle with Sarah in the centre, even if no one actually moved, changing a space into a cage purely by the way she was regarded. If there had been people doubting Daphne, they did no longer.

Daphne, however, took no visible notice, her attention was focused on me, just like it was the other way round. I started to say something and found I had lost my voice. She caught my eyes for a second, extracting the fingers of her right hand from a pocket that was cleverly hidden in a fold of her dress. Her fingers revealed half an inch of wood disappearing in the cloth – two wands. _My_ wand. Then they pushed them back inside.

My expression became murderous. There was only one moment where the two of us had been close enough for her to steal my wand – the right one, not the fake. A dance with Daphne was never just a dance. I should have known. I _had_ known. I just conveniently decided to ignore it, because I preferred not to think about it – the same trap everyone else had fallen in. In the end, she'd gotten me. And she knew that I knew, and was soaking up my expression.

Something shifted at that thought, knotting into a ball in my stomach, hard and cold and ugly. This was something I wasn't going to forget. No one used me like that, and _no one_ took my wand. Especially not _her_. Whatever there had been between the two of us – in reality nothing at all – was wiped away as by the swish of a wand. It died, silently and irrevocably, never to return.

Suddenly, someone intruded into our struggle. The moment fractured. The noise of the talk returned, excited, agitated, angry. Sarah had spun around, towards me, shouting, demanding an explanation, a rectification of the facts, a denial. I saw the honest confusion on her face.

"I didn't! What are you – I said nothing of the sort! Tell them at once I didn't!"

I was the only one. She stared at me, cheeks flushed in outrage, but if there was anything I didn't care about at all this moment, it was her. My hand darted for my wand, but Daphne caught my wrist halfway between, surprisingly strongly, shaking her head fractionally, a small smile on her lips. She bent towards me, and her voice was so very sweet.

"I played along earlier … now it's your turn."

For a second I pondered knocking her out cold. I certainly had no problems with creating another scandal. That thought, though, went as quickly as it came. This was a different kind of battle. The scandal ought to be hers, not mine, and I wanted to have the great pleasure to _see_ her fall from grace. And so I stayed silent, biding my time, and watched the drama unfold.

"There's a dear." Grey eyes watched me attentively, and soft lips brushed my cheek, then she withdrew.

The outrage was replaced with horror, then betrayal as Sarah watched Daphne whisper in my ear and I remained silent afterwards. Everything was now obvious, the conclusion logical. Funny how logic could lead us to all the wrong places.

Tears gathered in her eyes, as she gave a last glance into my direction, then gave up on me. Probably forever. One less person to believe in me, one less person I needed to feel responsible for. Why couldn't everyone bloody care for themselves, already?

Desperate, she turned back to her fiancé, trying to find support there instead. "They're lying! It's a vile conspiracy! Please, Eugene, you know that I would never tell anyone about _that_ –"

Bobbin senior uttered a strange choked sound. Sarah stared at him uncomprehendingly, then uttered a soft cry of horror when she realised she just had involuntarily all but confirmed it. She began to cry in earnest. Daphne abandoned all pretence of ever having been anything else than herself, and started to laugh.

"And there she goes again. Sweet Morgana, _Eugene_, what use is embarrassing yourself and everyone with marrying the daughter of a shop assistant, if she's a stupid, useless thing like this one?"

Sarah only sobbed harder, clinging to her fiancé, who seemed frozen in the face of the events that had left all reasonable pathways. People regarded Sarah hostilely and I knew that even if Bobbin would be able to fix this – which was possible enough, he was quite crafty – she wouldn't survive this evening.

There was a mess of questions, by Cuffe and others, some who apparently had invested into his company and now feared for their money, and him trying to answer, or trying to directly address friends, which then looked uncomfortable, and a few even did their best to make it appear like they never knew him. Tonight, at least, he would have no luck here, and he realised it.

"No! I tell you, it's not –"

He broke off, looked around wildly, searching for one friendly, supportive face. There was none. He stared at a wall of rejection. People didn't like paupers. Possibly this even was his last attendance here in a while.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as if to put meaning to his name. Then he did the only thing he could do.

"We are leaving. Come, Eugene. And _you_ too." He tore Sarah from the side of his nephew, and pushed her along, towards the exit. And like that, they went, with her still searching for answer in the wrong place.

"Why are you doing this?" Sarah gazed up at me as she stumbled past me, dazed, her look heartbroken, eyes brimming with tears. "_Why?_"

It was a single-worded accusation that just passed by. I stared at her tearstained face, fine smears where the teartracks had smudged the make-up of a happily anticipated midsummer night's dream turned bitter, and wasn't sure what I felt. I couldn't answer, wasn't sure what I would've said, even if I could have. It wasn't my doing. I had problems of my own. Daphne answered for me, placing a last cruel stab right through her heart; in the court of her fancy indictment and verdict all in one.

"Go back home, little girl. Your place is not here."

Then Sarah was dragged away by Bobbin senior who had simply marched on. More than one back was turned to him.

Sarah's heart-wrenching sobs were soon droned out by the laughter and animated voices, and the excited buzz of talking that began to spread when they had passed; people discussing the _shocking_ revelation that just had taken place, what a horrible thing, isn't it, Mrs. Don't-You-Think-This-Actually-Is-Exciting, and now I'm never one for gossip, mind, but _did_ you know that this apothecary chain owner was so broke that his nephew was forced to marry the daughter of one of his labourers?

I was probably the only one who saw Daphne's reaction. Just for a second, just before she turned around and took my arm and I felt my wand slip back into my pocket, emotions flitted over her face, and the expression burned itself into my memory.

The way she stood there, eyebrows arched, head turned, staring after the sobbing girl, lips slightly pursed in derision and at the same time curved into the finest and hardest of smiles, directed at the person she just ruined. And another stirring I thought I saw. _Pleasure_.

It burned in her gaze, behind all that grey, just for one instant in time. Then she turned towards me, and everything was gone.

"Come, Harry. We are done here."

o ] [ o

Outside, in the gardens, I cast a notice-me-not charm and slammed her against the wall.

"What the hell was that just now?"

"My, Harry, you're quite forceful."

She narrowed her eyes and I wondered if that was a hungry look I caught.

"But I should like to be on top, I think."

Her wand was out in a flash, and suddenly I was pressed against the wall, and she over me. _Switching spell, perfect execution._ I'd never seen anyone use that charm for anything bigger than a goblet.

"There, that's better," she sighed. "Now, what was your problem?"

I was trapped between her body and the wall, which sounded like as good an euphemism as any for being trapped between a rock and hard place. But then, some people liked hard places, didn't they, and I had always been one escape by attacking, and I was past the point of caring, anyway. I put my arms around her and pulled her closer. This worked both ways.

Her eyes widened slightly. We were flush against each other, I perfectly able to feel all of her, her body, her moving chest when she breathed. My finger dug into her shoulder where it hurt.

"No one cuts off my voice and steals my wand, Daphne. And feel free to spread malicious rumours and ruin as many people as you like, but _don't_ use my name for it."

She just laughed softly. "So angry." Her voice was laced with amusement. "I won this time, I do think." But the amused smile dimmed, when I didn't respond. "Yet I hardly did more than you, did I? So why the anger?"

"That's what I should ask you. Why?"

My fingers dug deeper into her shoulder blades as I spat the question, realising that this was what had bothered me about her, back in the ballroom. It merely prompted a fine smile. It made her look dangerous.

"Why I sabotaged her wedding and send her home crying."

Her voice had a curious inflection, as if she wasn't sure quite what to do with it, enjoy the words or explain them or ask me what I meant. In the end it ended up a half-question. She tilted her head slightly while looking at me, almost as if genuinely curious.

"I wanted to amuse myself. Didn't you know?"

Her mercilessly grey look pinned me against the wall far more than her body ever could; flooring me with the way she regarded me, not willing to budge an inch from what she was like, for no one; and yes, I had known. And just maybe, for one short instant, I had forgotten.

_Because you wanted to forget._

I tried to keep it off my face, and knew it was too late. Her eyes lit up.

"You expected more." There was a trace of glee in the way she said it, as if she had finally managed to trick me. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, then, Harry." Her voice held laughter. "Here, I'll make it up to you, hm?"

She was taunting me. There she wore the slight smile again, half mocking, half pleased, as she placed her hand on my cheek, ready to start another game, another battle for dominance, another round in our struggle that ended nowhere other than in lust and anger, the only ending it could ever have.

I cursed myself for my silliness. Had I forgotten but for an instant that she was _Daphne_, gotten caught up in the moment of an evening that somehow had been enjoyable; with her quick tongue, her sharpminded wit. And yet ... she _had_ seemed different, normal, perhaps; she had been pleasant enough, nice, almost … someone with whom you –

Daphne wasn't pleasant, and Daphne wasn't nice. There was nothing there for me except this, right here and now, her mocking voice and the coldness in her eyes. What on earth had I been looking for? In _her_?

My expression hardened. The faint, enigmatic smile returned to her lips. Her hand cupped my cheek, the thumb slowly brushing over my lips, the leather of her glove soft on my skin, as soft as her soothing voice.

"There we are. This is better."

Silly to look for something I hadn't even wanted.

_And aren't possessing yourself._

I caught her wrist before her hand made another move.

"You are a vindictive, conniving bitch. And yes, we both knew that. However –"

I twisted out of her grasp, spinning us back around; slamming her against the wall much more forcefully than necessary. She let out a little shriek. Then I slapped her soundly across the lovely face. I couldn't remember a thing that felt more satisfying in my life. I stared at her.

"Don't you _ever_ use me like that for your personal games again."

I _wouldn't_ forget her this.

She gazed at me, not making a sound, not even touching her burning cheek; our eyes at just the same height, and then there was the usual coldness in hers. I'd never liked being forced to look down to talk.

"Do you quite remember how it all began?" It was posed as an off-handed remark and was anything but. "You came to me. You were the one to start this. So don't you dare complain that others are playing with you. It's our game, not mine."

A game for which I suddenly had run out of patience.

"It ends now, Daphne. I've not the mind for your little schemes and plots, and the same goes for your sister. Do it in your spare time as often as you need to spice up your _horribly_ boring lives, but stop involving me. That's over."

And finally, her voice matched her eyes. Harsh and cold.

"It doesn't work that way and you know it. You don't get to stand up and simply walk away. Not at this point. No, Harry, you had that chance and threw it away. You wanted this just as much, so stop the pretence; both of us are exactly where we want to be."

"I'll do whatever the bloody hell I please, Daphne. Thought you'd know that by now."

"Indeed. And so will I."

We stared each other in tense silence, having long since stopped talking about her escapade with the girl. But as quick as it had come her icy tone was gone, and her playful manner was back. Her hand dipped under my robes, sliding across my back, as she showed that she took her words quite literally.

"Apologise for ridiculing me with these stupid clothes, and I'll apologise for _using_ you."

"Just two more lies, Daphne. Neither of us is sorry in the least."

I finally realised how close we really were; just inches apart. Time seemed frozen, just for an instant, before she spoke. "Yes," she murmured. "Not sorry … not sorry at all."

Her eyes gleamed. And then she grabbed my head and crashed my mouth to hers hungrily.

"Now kiss me, you brute."

o ] [ o

The park of Charing House was spacious and honeycombed with enough small paths to be able to find some undisturbed time if you wanted it.

We had found a nice bench hidden under a few blooming jasmine bushes and I'd sprawled myself onto it, lazily pulling her down beside me after a thorough attempt of getting to know her intimately that would have lead to more, but of course Daphne wasn't the type for a quick romp against the wall. It would get her dress wrinkly.

We didn't cuddle.

Daphne didn't seem the type to cuddle.

Instead I stared at her, struck by the angry knowledge that she was never going to be wholly mine, never going to change, never going to be what I truly searched for, and that I somehow desired her because of that, because I was just as flawed, just as messed up as her.

She touched something no one else had before. It wasn't love. It was as far away from love as it got. It was lust and desire and a fascination with darkness and a lot of other things I didn't want to dwell on, but probably the most important bit was that I suddenly _cared_. I only haltingly realised how little I had, since Voldemort's death. Where everything was drowning apathy, she inspired a volcano of feelings – not love, but anger. Considering her eruptions, it was the same for her. And when that feeling was all that was there, I guess in some weird way we brought out the most in each other.

I never said I came out of the war unscathed.

Perhaps this, then, was my doom. That I thought she would have been perfect, if only she hadn't been _Daphne_. And that I knew deep inside, that, if she hadn't been Daphne, I never would have thought she was perfect in the first place.

Well, the lack of loving besottedness had one upside. It made me never forget that I had a job to do, which was the actual reason I sat here. I had an easy arm around her shoulder and caught an icy glare that made me grin. I'd been right.

The arm stayed where it was.

"So you've been married to Bletchley, then? What's it like, marriage?"

She turned her head a little and steely grey eyes bored into me.

"Hell," she said finally, and I thought that might just have been the most truthful thing she ever said to me.

She didn't elaborate. I didn't ask.

She stared into the sky that was dark and void of stars. Her softly exhaled breath rose up to meet the clouds.

"I'll never marry again."

"Tell me what Miles did for Voldemort."

She kissed me and didn't answer, needy little kisses, I could feel her desire in each of them. The smell of jasmine was all over us, overpoweringly sweet, making it hard to think.

"Where do you live?" she breathed.

"My Godfather's house."

"The Black Ancestral Home?" she asked softly. "I never had a chance to visit it."

"Want to?"

She closed her eyes and nodded.

"Yes."

I nodded as well.

"Was Miles assigned for special tasks? Did you know he was working for Voldemort – a Death Eater?"

She kept her eyes closed for a while, before she opened them again.

"So that's the way it's going to be?"

"Yes. And you knew it would be."

"Yes. Damn you."

For a moment, she sounded angry.

"Why do you have to be so damn stubborn and make everything complicated."

"You mean, like you?"

"I hate you."

"So do I, sweetheart. So do I."

She didn't say more, just gathered her shawl, rose and left.

"Call me when you have some more lives to ruin where I can be of help," I called after her, but my heart wasn't in it. I'd just blown any chances there might have been for something between us.

Considering what she was and what I knew, that should make me happy.

And all it did was making me feel empty. I felt like getting drunk. I resolved to start on that right away.

o ] [ o

I opened my eyes and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. It was white, and thick, dark oak beams carried it. The ceiling in my bedroom was … green. Yes, forest green. So I was not in my bedroom –

I shook my head, trying to think straight. It wasn't all that easy, considering some evil being in my head was happily using my skull as an anvil. My look fell onto the polished oak furniture, and the fireplace, and I suddenly remembered my third year at Hogwarts. I was in a room at the Leaky Cauldron. I faintly smelled the fresh juniper of the cleanser Tom used.

"Now how the hell did I end up here?" I murmured. I resolved to start drinking less. I couldn't remember a single damn thing. I had been to that stupid banquet with Daphne, right, kissing lots, arguing more, afterwards downing anything I could get my hands on and then … nothing. Mental blank. Passed out.

"Well, let's hope I had fun."

Somehow, I thought that was unlikely. I stretched in the bed, and touched something cold. I froze. I wasn't alone in that bed.

I slowly turned left. Next to me laid Astoria.

And Astoria was very much dead.

* * *

_Sorry for the lack of replies, if any of you were waiting. My internet is only sporadic, currently. If there were specific questions, I'll get to them; I've read all the reviews, in any case. Thanks a lot!_


	13. Chapter 13

–––**CHAPTER 13–––**

**I** SCRAMBLED out of the bed, got tangled up in the covers, crashed to the ground and cut my knee. It spared me getting fried by five stunners that hit the wall, as the door burst inwards and crashed against the wardrobe.

I rolled sideways, trying to get rid of the cover and grabbing my wand, which was lying on the bedside table. A yellow curse hit the white covers around my legs and disintegrated them into ash. I yelped and leapt for my wand, grabbing it, trying to twist in midair and return fire.

The spell went into the general direction of the ceiling. Lying on the ground, I banished the broken door back through the opening. Two different screams and a satisfying crunch signalled success.

"What in the blazing hell do you want?" I yelled across the room, using the lapse in fire to jump to my feet. "There's a body in here, I have a killer hangover and –"

There was a shuffle and a voice called: "You are arrested. Surrender your wand and come quietly, and no one needs to get hurt."

"I – what? The hell I will – you – _Protego!_"

I didn't have time to ponder Astoria's death or how they knew she was here (or even what they thought they were doing). The curse that impacted on my shield was designed to break bones. _right._ So the gloves were off.

"_Ossis fragmen!_"

I returned the curse and hastily ducked sideways. An entire barrage of spells lit up the doorway and crashed into the wall, ripping chunks out of it. Under covering fire they advanced. There had to be at least six – three casting spells and the three that now were peeking around the doorframe.

I fired blasting curses, bathing the dark corridor behind the ruined door in flaring crimson. Plaster trickled down from above as my spells were reflected by a shield and hit the ceiling in muffled explosions one by one. The last one finally caught the foremost wizard. He crashed to ground, uttering a low moan of pain. The other two retreated again.

A blue shield snapped up, spanning across the entire doorway. _Next try._ My bone breakers glanced off, and I was hesitant to use darker spells than they did. Which had nothing to do with some kind of misguided sense of nobility, but simply with the fact that they represented the Ministry. You do not want dead officials at your feet and have it later turn out that everything was a mistake. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

Three of them pushed forward again, covered by their comrades.

_Let's see how you like this, then._

I transfigured splinters of wood on the ground into a brick wall that shut the doorway effectively and halted their progress once more. The door was the bottleneck of their attack, easier to defend than to take.

Now I had time to think. I tried to ignore Astoria as much as I could, and ran to the window. Ripping it open, I noticed a strange opaque shimmer and any hopes of escaping evaporated like water in the summer heat. There was no escaping. They had put a containment spell on the room. The magic kept whatever was inside, inside. It worked great. We had used it often enough in Auror raids.

I slid down the headboard of the bed, sitting down on the ground and stared ahead, looking at nothing in particular. It was over. I could only wait for them to enter and fetch me. Through the open window drifted sounds of a leisured early Saturday morning in the Alley, somewhere far away. My head hurt. I was thirsty.

The end finally came when someone on the other side lost their patience. An enormous explosion rocked the corridor without warning and blasted the wall away. The shockwave threw me backwards, and I felt my left arm break as I crashed onto it with my full weight. I tried to bring up my wand and shield, but I wasn't fast enough.

"Expelliarmus!" snapped one of my attackers, and my wand soared away.

For the first time, I caught a clear look of my opponents. They wore black cloaks. Standard Hitwizard attire. And now they moved to reveal another person behind the jagged opening.

Robards stepped forward, looking so utterly smug and pleased that I wanted to bash his face in.

"All done, boys?" After receiving a nod, his sickly grin became even wider.

"I cannot even begin to explain how much I have looked forward to this day," he said into my direction. I felt like I could have cast a Killing Curse at the moment without any problems.

"Harry James Potter, you hereby are arrested for the murder of Astoria Greengrass."

His wand flashed red, and the last thing I saw was her wide open blue eyes; her face, so young, and so dead.

o ] [ o

I woke up in a dark cell.

I had no idea how much time had passed – my head felt better and my arm felt worse. No one had bothered to check it, let alone call someone to mend the bone. Of course not. We were talking about Robards.

For a while, I simply stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing … or perhaps I did, a pair of cornflower blue eyes, looking blindly ahead, lifeless. It was hard to grasp, I thought. Just yesterday I'd seen her, and now …

Death was always sudden.

Or perhaps, if it wasn't, I'd never known any other kind. You got used to it, eventually. War was war. The first time was the worst, then it became easier. I'd tried my damn hardest to retain a part that _felt_, that was horrified and screamed out, during that time, and still wasn't sure I'd succeeded. The moment that very last part disappeared, the only thing that separated you from the likes of Voldemort was your different mindset. For some people that was enough. I guessed it had to be enough for me.

In the end, my life had been shaped by the war, despite Dumbledore's best tries. It had taken away close friendships, normality and youth. It had changed me, and probably not in a good way. I understood him better now.

War had been what my life was about, for two long years, and in a way, it still was. I had no idea what else to do. On some level, that was the reason I had accepted when Kingsley had asked if I wanted to help rounding up the Death Eaters. It was what I did.

_And all I did._

I pushed the thoughts away. I hated reflecting on how dismal my life was.

_At least I'm still alive._ That had to count for something, right? Astoria was dead.

She hadn't even been of age yet.

Damn. Damn it all. She had been a potions addict, a child confused between physical maturity and emotional childhood, lost in life, but she hadn't deserved to die. Not any more than Geiger deserved to be a cripple. _And she'd loved you._ In her own, strange way, but she had. It somehow touched me, even if wasn't sure exactly why. I couldn't say I'd ever reciprocated her feelings, but I would find her killer. That much I could do for her.

But not from here. Damn again.

The cell was small, like all holding cells in the Ministry. Three steps into either direction, bare stone, one cot. That was all. The third, front wall was no actual wall but solid iron bars. Well, I suppose the iron qualifier didn't matter. They were layered with a complex charmwork, much like in Azkaban. Reaching through it for instance was impossible.

The torch on the far wall, at the other side of the corridor, revealed a little wooden table, a chair and a snoring wizard. It was the only source of light, the cells were unlit, and their dark stone walls swallowed the meagre rays that travelled over greedily. It was the same black stone that also clad the courtrooms into their gloomy livery.

We were on level ten, below the Department of Mysteries. Next to the old courtrooms were detention cells, used as temporary places to secure convicted prisoners before they were shipped to Azkaban. Likewise, it held the Death Eaters when they were called in front of the Wizengamot. I had attended all the war trials. I had been down here, many times. Never had I imagined that I'd look at the bars from this side.

I didn't waste a moment trying to figure out some elaborate plan to get out on my own. It had been part of my job to keep even the most creative Dark Wizard from succeeding at just that, and there wasn't a chance.

Sometimes being an Auror gave you an odd sense of security. Today, it only robbed me of all illusions average wizards would have held. Or perhaps that was what it always did.

I turned on the hard wooden cot to stand up, hissing as my arm brushed against the wall, sending a lance of pain through my shoulder. It dangled uselessly at an awkward angle on my side. No way they hadn't seen that. Time to annoy the lazy fucker outside.

"Oi!" I shouted. The guard, one of the Hitwizards as well, I noticed, jerked up. I guessed Robards used the grunts because he didn't trust someone from our department to keep me locked up. Suspicious bastard.

He stared at me, and at once I wished I'd let him sleep. He had two different eye colours, one brown the other blue. Both fixated me in a stare that was seriously starting to creep me out.

"Yes?"

He spoke with a slight hiss. I looked at him warily. Not that I was intimidated easily, usually, but then I also had my wand, usually. I currently missed it like nothing else in the world. As if he'd read my mind, he slowly lifted something from his table.

"Looking for this?"

He said it with an a twisted grimace that was perhaps supposed to be a grin. It made his face look hideous. I exploded in anger.

"Don't touch my wand, you creepy little shit!"

I wanted nothing more than rip it from his grasp, but all I could do was clench the bars and hiss in pain as my left arm protested.

"My arm is broken," I told him. "Get me a healer."

He slowly placed the wand back onto the table.

"No."

_What?_

"Did you just say no, Two-Eyes?"

That name got him going. He was at the bars in a flashed and stared at me, first with the brown eye, then with the blue one. I suppressed a shudder.

"No," he whispered. "You won't get a healer, Harry Potter. Order from Robards." Again, the nasty grin. "And you'll keep your mouth shut, if you know what is good –"

He suddenly stopped and turned back around, muttering to himself.

"Mustn't talk. Robards won't like it."

He glared at me before he sat back down at his desk.

"Silence."

Any further attempt to get him to talk failed, and in want of doing something more useful, I retreated onto my cot.

o ] [ o

And so I waited. Eventually, Robards appeared to interrogate me. I heard his steps echoing in the dark stone corridor long before he appeared from within the darkness. Savage accompanied him. He stood unmovingly next to the Head Auror, wand in hand, doing his utmost to look emotionless and serious. Perhaps Robards had told him to.

I wasn't even let out of my cell. They simply took the chair of Two-Eyes and placed it in front of the cell at the floor, the bars between us. Naturally, it was for Robards. He crossed his legs comfortably while I had to stand, or else sit on the ground. He was pulling out all the stops. It didn't make me any more agreeable.

I stood at the gates.

"What is the meaning of this, Robards? Have you finally lost it completely? I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is unlawful detention. They'll finally have your arse for this."

He only looked at me. I shook my head, disgusted.

"Whatever. Just get me the hell out of here, Robards."

He finally deemed it acceptable to respond.

"You won't get out anytime soon, Potter. You are right where you belong. On top of everything, I think I can even add attempted resistance and property damage to the list. Not that it would make a difference. Murder is a nasty business, after all. That's lifetime for the hero. In Azkaban."

He sounded so utterly pleased. I stared at him, incredulously.

"Very funny. Now stop wasting your time here and start looking for the real culprit."

"Your lies won't help you, Potter. It is finally put – to – an – end."

He punctuated the words with a finger drilling itself into the armrest.

I exploded.

"Damnit, Robards, someone killed her and tried to frame _me_. You've got the wrong man, you idiot! While you spend your time pursuing your shitty vendetta against me, the real murderer is happily running around, doing who knows what. And I need to see a healer, my arm's broken."

I took a breath and tried to be civil. I really tried. But Robards had long since passed the point where he possessed at least a shred of reason. He was in his own world, and it played out like a prescripted event, with Robards staging himself.

"It was a frame job, and in your eagerness to put one over me, you're falling for it like an idiot trainee," I said bitterly. What a perfect, easy set-up. I was the only one who knew that Astoria's murderer was still at large, and I was stuck here, because Robards was as predictable as a child who had gotten handed a bag of sweets. I needed to get out of here, but nothing I said would make any difference. I felt the anger in me boiling over. He was like a Hippogriff. Narrow-minded, blinded by his own anger. Fucking obstinate idiot.

Robards offered me a vacant smile that was beyond any sense of reality. He hadn't even _listened_.

"Let's talk about what you did after you left the dinner, Potter."

"I can't remember. I wasn't exactly in a good state by that time."

"Of course, you might perhaps not understand how serious this is." Robards leant forwards and folded his hands. The fingers build a pyramid, then a tent. He was lecturing an audience. I, or any objections, had no place in his fantasy. "Let me explain it to you. The girl checked in at ten p.m. One and half an hour later a male person walked up the stairs. He was seen entering her room, but no one saw them leave. _Either_ of them. And this morning we find you there, next to her – and the poor, poor girl is dead."

The day Robards felt sorry for a Greengrass and truly considered her a _poor, poor girl_ was the day hell froze over.

"I was at the stupid Ministry banquet!" I shouted. "Hell, you saw me yourself. I have no clue how I ended up in the Leaky Cauldron, but at that time I was still there!"

And I was sure I had been. But he swept that aside with a single wave of his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, lots of people saw you. You and her sister, the talk of the evening. How utterly nauseating. But no one saw you after eleven p.m. You were gone. Gone here, to meet the girl, and then you killed her."

"I didn't –"

"Then _what_ did you do, Potter?"

"I told you, I can't remember!"

Robards smiled a horrible smile.

"Yes, how very convenient. You can't remember. If it was me, perhaps I'd try to forget a murder as well."

I clenched my fists.

"You have nothing beyond circumstantial evidence. Anyone could have been the man. I don't know what I did, but I didn't kill her."

It sounded weak to my own ears. Robards spared me only a derisive smile.

Perhaps I'd thought he'd harp on that point some more, but I was surprised when he said nothing and instead beckoned Savage over. He carried one of those spell-proof boxes we used to handle evidence and make sure it didn't get tampered with. One flick with his wand turned it transparent. Inside was another wand, grey, of average size.

I looked at Robards through the bars, and he looked so utterly pleased and smug. Suddenly, I had a bad feeling.

"Then I'll assume you can't _remember_ this here either?"

He dangled the box in front of my nose.

"It doesn't matter, since you're giddy with excitement that you can tell me," I bit back. His eyes sparked in fury, but there was no retort, only a dangerous smile. _Very_ bad.

"This wand, Potter, was found in the room, and cast the Killing Curse."

I waited for the bombshell, and it came.

"And you used it."

o ] [ o

In the end, it didn't matter whether I remembered or not. The wand as evidence on the scene was damning. Both the _Prior Incantato_ and the _Prior Uti_ spell were fool-proof. If it said the last curse was the Killing Curse, then it was. If it said I had used it last, then I had.

The _Prior Uti_ spell _could_ even only trace the magic of its last user. What could I have done with it if not casting a Killing Curse? I tried to come up with answers and simply didn't remember using it. Well, of course not. I remembered nothing after one fuzzy point at Charing House, to which drinking copious amounts of alcohol had led, after Daphne and I parted ways in the Gardens.

But I knew I hadn't killed her. I was sure, I felt it with certainty – the way you are sure that you are yourself and not someone else. Of course, the chances of convincing Robards of that were non-existent. He handled the wand like his personal Philosopher's Stone. His almost reverent look was revolting. And as if that hadn't been clear enough, his parting words were.

"Remember it well, Potter. Because this wand will be your downfall, the one you had coming for a long, long time."

And then they had left. Even the Hitwizard. I was alone, alone with myself and my dark thoughts. You couldn't reason with someone like Robards. He was a nasty little shit, and always had been. He hadn't liked me from the day I set foot into the Office.

And now he was in a position to act it out.

I stared at the wall morosely. Was it possible that he covered for someone? That he was actually in on it? Someone was framing me, most likely the real murderer. Who would have wanted to kill Astoria?

Lots of people, probably, if the behaviour I'd seen was any indication. That didn't get me anywhere. What had she done, in the hours before her death? Why had she been at the Leaky Cauldron? How had Robards known? An anonymous tip from the actual culprit?

I needed more information. I needed to get _out_.

Voices drifted down the corridor. Upset, arguing. Were they returning so soon?

"… at once! This is an outrage. Pius will hear … no mistake –"

"He is accused –"

The voices were distorted by the echo of the stone-tiled walls, sounding sharply, tinny, and hard to make out. However, they came nearer.

"– were together at that time. After the ball, we went home. He was in my company last night. Do I need to be more explicit?"

"You are covering for him!"

I finally recognised Robards. His voice was shaking in rage. A second later, he rounded the corner, standing in front my cell. His face was a mask of fury and he clenched his wand so hard I could swear I heard the wood creak. It moved, jerkily. The door clicked open, there was a sudden bright light in the hall and he spat a single word.

"_Out._"

I shook my head, dazed at the light and the sudden turn of events "But why –"

My voice died in my throat. In the corridor, clad in bright red and looking utterly misplaced like a diamond among lumps of coal, stood Daphne, smiling.

* * *

_**Review!**_


	14. Chapter 14

–––**CHAPTER 14–––**

**I** WAS OUT in under five minutes. And my arm was put in a cast. One look from Daphne had sent everyone scrambling. I had smiled at Robards, who stared at us in murderous rage, and I had cleaned my wand on a piece of cloth, which Daphne had given me. It was finest silk, unconjured. I had yet to see her transfigure anything herself. She seemed to be one of those people that liked to spend money to show they had them, or maybe she was worse at Transfiguration than I thought.

Finally, we stood in the lift upstairs, alone. I smiled at her, somewhat sheepish.

"Thanks for getting me out."

She returned my smile warmly.

"Don't mention it. I said I was going to make Wednesday's inconvenience up to you. This was the least I could do."

Not in this world. But maybe …

I hesitated for the fraction of a second.

"Did we really leave the Ministry together?"

The lift rattled up. She was silent for a moment.

"No."

I sighed.

"That's what I feared." My fingers drummed against the wall of the cage while I considered her carefully. "I can't really remember anything from the end of the night. It's all fuzzy."

"You _were_ awfully drunk." She scrunched up her nose. "You are drinking too much."

From her, it sounded like a reproach.

"I know that."

Her hands moved agitated, up to her hair, then stopping just short of brushing through it, after all; dropping back down.

"I left shortly before eleven o'clock. Merlin, I can't believe … Astoria _dead_ …"

There was a brief pause. The air in the narrow lift cage became stifling, or maybe that was just my feeling.

"Yesterday, that sounded quite different."

I said it casually. Her head jerked up like something had hit her.

"What?"

My fingers leisurely pushed the stop button. Time to end this nonsense. I needed to be a bit more inconvenient.

I studied her appearance. Today, she was wearing rich red robes with a fur collar; closed up front with a clasp, except for the lower half. When she moved, taking a step back, I could catch glimpses of her leg.

The hard, cold spotlight illuming the lift bleached the colours, casting an ashen hue over all things. A sharply defined cone caught half of her; from her blonde hair – a side parting, and a little shorter than before, I thought, just reaching her shoulders –, across her face, the bright, open side appearing even paler than usual, the other one hidden in darkness and behind sweeps of wavy hair. I saw nothing there, no expression, no movement, other than a raised, shadowy eyebrow. In this light, even small imperfections would show, but on her, there were none. Her face was perfectly smooth, and just as blank. Amazement in style, never too blatant, always controlled, politely unoffending-offending.

The lift came to a jerky halt. The light flickered. Someone needed to tell the Magical Maintenance.

"Well?"

I leant back against the wall and stuffed my hands in the pockets.

"Simple. I don't know what the hell happened or where I went, but I know that I didn't kill her. Which means someone has been trying to frame me, and this someone is most likely the murderer. You had both the opportunity and a motive."

"I'm not sure I understand?"

I fixated my gaze on her.

"I overheard you, before we went the Ministry. You were arguing. Astoria didn't like that we went together. She felt I belonged to her. She said she was in love with me. She threatened you. Perhaps she was a rival. Perhaps you were jealous. Perhaps it was an accident. It happens."

For a second, the look from her grey eyes was utterly chilling. Twin shards of ice, weighing me, cold and dangerous. My hand crept to my wand.

Then she started to laugh. Her rich voice echoed through the lift cage.

"The nerve! Oh my, the utter nerves you must have, to confront me with that after I just got you out of a lifetime in Azkaban."

But I wasn't to be deterred. "So you didn't?"

"Obviously not," she said, sounding impatient now. Perhaps there was a hint of warning in her voice too. "If I had killed her out of jealousy and wanted you for myself, what would be the point of blaming _you_?"

A pause, a heartbeat, and an appraising look. And suddenly she was close, and I couldn't tell how she had moved. Perhaps she'd Apparated.

"But that doesn't mean I _wasn't_ a little jealous of my sister."

Her voice whispered in my ear, and her hands were under my shirt, cool hands, smooth and soft; and my mind flashed back to last night, and where we left off, before our different roles in this play got in the way of things, before I started asking questions.

"She looked so happy. I'd like that too."

I didn't feel like asking questions now.

"And the sheer audacity you display … I like it. I like it _a lot_."

"Do you now?" I murmured. She was right in front of me; I could smell her perfume, not like with those girls you could confuse with an entire flowerbed that needed pruning, but very lightly, the slightly dry, sweet note of lavender; nothing else, and standing out for that very reason. She was this rarer kind of women that didn't wear cosmetics as a mask, to hide the insecurity beneath, but as a crown.

I snaked my hands under her robes, searching, then drawing her towards me, trying to close the most bothersome remaining inch of space between us. A small smile grazed her lips, full and red, her fingers traced my cheek, and then she withdrew and left me. The loss was acute and intentional.

"I do. But on the other hand, I cannot allow such insolence to go unpunished."

Always a game.

"Playing again, Daphne?" My voice was cold. "I thought I made myself quite clear."

My wand came out. Her hand moved to her side, then she froze.

"Looking for this?"

My left hand revealed her dark yew wand. I flipped it into the air, catching it again. Then I levelled a glare at her.

"Summoning-resistant robe pockets really don't seem to be enough these days. Now, if you're quite done, let's have a chat. What's this about?"

Her face hardened.

"You must have forgotten to grant me access to your thoughts. What _this_, exactly, are you talking about?"

Her voice was biting. I made a gesture.

"This all. Your little rescue mission, for starters. You just lied for me and got out of your way to get me out of prison. What do you want?"

A sudden look of understanding crept on her face.

"I see." Her stiff posture relaxed and glanced at me. "You would never believe I was trying to make amends, would you? No, of course not." She sighed. "So what, then? What could I possibly tell you that you would accept?"

"How about the truth?"

"Careful, Harry. You are getting entangled in your own trap." The tone wasn't quite mocking, but almost. "How will you know if you happen to stumble upon it? You just dismissed it. The truth, at this point, is merely that which you want to hear."

She extended her hand.

"Let's do away with this silliness. May I?"

When I made no move to hand her wand over, she became impatient.

"You don't honestly believe I will curse you, do you?" Her voice was sharp, now. "Or that I actually killed my sister to get _you_, for that matter. You can be certain I get what I want without having to kill people – and you're not that important, anyway."

Now that sounded more like Daphne. I considered her, still at wandpoint.

"It does seem to make little sense," I finally conceded. "Still, she threatened you. Maybe that was enough. And either way, it doesn't explain –"

"Why I got you out, yes, yes."

She rubbed her temples. "Look. Robards said something about the Leaky Cauldron. I haven't been there in years. Can that be good enough, for now? Feel free to verify it. And as far as me getting you out of Robards' disgusting fingers is concerned –"

She took her step back. Her tone was suddenly brisk and businesslike.

"You are now hired, Harry. I want her murderer found, and I want you to do it. Anything you need you'll get. Am I clear?"

I lowered my wand. So that was it. And true enough, she would yet again get what she wanted. I threw the wand at her which she caught with her left hand, twirling it between her fingers before it vanished inside her robes.

"You have an _infuriating_ talent to get people to do what you want."

"Is that a yes?"

I glared at her. What else was I going to say? Refuse it, when I wanted to find Astoria's murderer as much as she did? I remembered what I'd promised in the cell, and even leaving aside that, it was the only way to prove my innocence. I certainly didn't trust anyone Robards appointed to do it, and she knew that, oh yes. The insufferable smile was proof enough.

"I obviously planned to do it anyway, so to hell with your manoeuvres. I'm doing it for me, not for you."

I hit the button with more force than was necessary, and the lift rattled further up.

"I'll need to have a look at the body first. Before they clear up the scene. I'm quite certain I won't get the chance if I go on my own."

The smile vanished. Her face whitened a little and she pressed her lips together, but nodded. I couldn't care less. Whether it was only an act or not, I certainly wasn't going to consider her feelings. She wanted me to take on the case, she'd deal.

"Level eight, Atrium", the cool, impersonal voice in the lift announced. The doors opened, and we emerged. The hall looked as grand as always, a tribute to magic, but I certainly didn't care about the gilded fireplaces or the mysterious golden symbols at the opal-blue ceiling now. I stomped next to her through the hall, still in an unpleasant mood. Once past the security gate, she stopped and pulled out a small ring capped by a beautiful, polished amethyst.

"_Portus_."

For only a second, the translucent violet stone shone in a blue hue, as if there was a sapphire fire burning deep within. It looked pretty. She held it out for me to touch.

"Coming?"

I stared at her.

"Portkeys are regulated. It's illegal to make them yourself."

"Is it?" she said carelessly. "Well, I prefer them. It shows off my talent. Doesn't it?"

I said nothing.

She paused.

"Can _you_ make Portkeys?"

"No," I said. "I can't."

"I only know two other people who can," she said and looked pleased.

o ] [ o

The Portkey deposited us after a perfectly smooth ride directly in the corridor above the pub downstairs. It still looked quite dramatic. I saw scorch marks and rubbish heaps with splinters of what could have been the wall or the door once, and there was a burnt smell irritating my nose. The barn-door-sized hole in the wall was cordoned off with the special kind of red spellotape we used for the purpose.

And then there was a gasp at our backs.

"It's Harry Potter!"

After that exclamation, the storm broke loose.

I spun around, Daphne at my side. Behind us, held back by another line of spellotape, were at least a dozen reporters, fighting for the front place in the narrow corridor, each trying to shout louder than the other; and many ordinary wizards who looked like they simply had walked up to watch the excitement. Murder was always exciting. Cameras flashed. Shouts, fragments of questions, hailed down on both of us like spellfire. The noise was deafening.

"Who is –"

"Mrs. Bletchley! What, in your opinion, would be a reason to murder –"

"Is it true that your sister was involved in illegal goblin gambling?"

"Harry, is there any _special_ reason you are here with –"

"Are you involved with Harry Potter?"

"A quote for the _Evening Prophet_, please!"

I saw Daphne whiten. Then she looked mad. Really pissed off. For just a second I felt regretful that I wasn't the cause of the rage in that look.

"How do you feel after the death –"

She spun on her heels and stormed into the spelled-off area, cutting the tape into shreds with an sharp jab of her wand. None of the bits were bigger than a matchstick. They hadn't yet touched the ground, when she grabbed the nearest Auror at the scruff of his neck.

"Miss, you aren't allow-"

"Silence, you fool! Who is in charge here?"

The reporters continued to assault me with meaningless question. None of them brought up the topic of me getting arrested for Astoria's murder. So Robards hadn't yet given a press conference or optionally paraded me through Diagon Alley while I was Stunned. Thank Merlin for some small favours.

I stepped past the now no-longer spelled-off area, ignoring the reporters in my wake. The room looked more or less the way it had when I left it against my will. There were the chunks of stone littering the ground, and the fine white powder of the plaster that had settled over the scene from the destroyed wall. The far wall still had the scorch marks from our fight.

The smell, however, had changed. Gone was the faint trace of the juniper oil. Instead it smelled like death. Putrid and rotten like mouldy earth, and stale, even if you had just let in fresh air or used a freshening charm. It remained, clinging to the room, ready to assault you once you stepped a foot inside. I'd smelled it too many times.

Daphne was talking to the third Auror by now and looked none the happier. They were playing pass the Quaffle. No one wanted to deal with a pissed off Greengrass, and apparently, no one wanted to be the one to sic her on their superior either.

It came to an end though when Daphne lost her temper and used a suffocating spell on the next best one until he frantically pointed towards an Auror kneeling near the bedside.

"Auror."

The man rose and turned infuriatingly slowly.

"Yes?"

"If you have any desire to remain in your current position at all, the impertinent mob will be gone when I turn around."

She stared at him, and so did I, but for a different reason. Some days, you just had all the luck.

Leading the investigation was Auror Andrew Williamson.

o ] [ o

When he saw me, his eyes narrowed hatefully, and there was something else – was that envy? It was gone before I could pin it down, and a sneer was plastered on his face.

"Well, look who's here." Me, not her. "Moving on quite quickly, aren't we? Your erstwhile bint is dead, so you grab her sister. What a surprise."

The wand was in my hand already. I was itching to curse him. He jeered at me.

"Do it, Potter. Show everyone here your true colours." Williamson spat at the ground before me. "You aren't even worth to be called an Auror. The side at which you're standing now says it all. Should be pointing your wand at _her_, instead of your comrades. But then, we never were your comrades, were we? You were always better than us."

I lowered my wand.

"Shut your damn mouth, Williamson, and do as she told you. Get these vultures off my back."

"Oh, I don't think so."

A nasty grin spread over his face.

"You see, I'm told the wizard next door like his friendly Auror open and in touch with people. And this is a matter of public interest, of course. A member of _the_ Greengrass family getting murdered? How tragic. Why, I can't shut them out here!"

Daphne stared at Williamson.

"I will not stand for this."

Her voice was very soft.

Williamson shrugged. "Don't stand for it all you like. I think the correct expression in this case is go fuck yourself, lady."

Laughter and fake-scandalised gasps rippled through the corridor behind us, which had listened attentively. Williamson grinned at her. I thought he might have misinterpreted her tone.

There was a sharp intake of breath next to me.

"You dare –"

"Yes, I dare, Greengrass!" Wiliamson growled. "I'm not your lackey, and as opposed to your new boytoy, I don't go round shitting on the department for some tail. You may have _him_ at your beck and call, and perhaps half the rest of the department, but not me. Now _you_ move out of the crime scene, before I hail you into detention for obstructing my work."

During his speech, Daphne had gone still. Very, very still.

"I see. A pity, truly."

With two quick strides, she was over at the fireplace and hat thrown a pinch of Floo Powder inside. Williamson's head jerked around.

"What –"

"The Ministry of Magic, Auror Office Headquarters."

The fire turned green and she cast a soot repelling charm on her head, before she stuck it into the flames. I heard only her voice from the fire.

"Robards. Get your arse over here."

A pause.

"You can't comprehend how much I don't care. Pius will arrive any moment. Is that reason enough?"

Williamson, who had stared at her, surprised, gave a snarl of rage and leapt over to pull her away. But she had already turned back to him on her own, and behind her the green fire flared up, with Robards stepping through, just in time to hear Williamson's shout.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you are –"

Daphne rounded on Robards. There were breadcrumbs on his robes. Apparently, Daphne had dragged him away from his lunch.

"Robards. Tell your Aurors to get the people out of here. I will not have the death of my sister made a public spectacle of. And get someone more competent in here than this halfwitted troll. He is not fit to lead the investigation."

Williamson turned an ugly shade of red.

"You little bitch –"

"_Silencio_," she snapped into his direction, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. A flurry of hexes and two Aurors, storming towards her after they saw her raising her wand against Williamson, flew back through the air, crashing into the wall. "I wasn't talking to _you_. Robards. _Am I clear?_"

He glared at her. I hadn't thought he could possibly despise someone more than he did me, but Daphne ranked close.

"I don't –"

"_Get it done_. Pius will arrive any moment. You do not want me to have him fire you, do you?"

He clenched his wand. Daphne's posture was tense, but the actual challenge was in her tone. And he backed down.

"Williamson, I'll take over. Get the press the hell out of here, and I will deal with this nightmare."

"But sir –"

"Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," he said sullenly. "Everyone out."

"And that includes _him_."

Robards pointed in my direction.

"He stays," Daphne said. "I trust there is no problem with that."

Robards uttered a growl of barely suppressed rage, and stomped over to Williamson, out into the corridor, where the Auror was now half-heartedly pushing back the people.

At this moment, a disturbance spread through the crowd.

A tall man in rich blue robes arrived with rapid strides, pushing his way through the crowd with liberal use of banishing charms. More than one person was pushed to the ground in his wake, but he took no notice. He had long hair, well groomed, reaching past his shoulders. His beard was trimmed shorter than I remembered, and it had acquired a few more streaks of silver, but otherwise I recognised him at once.

That man was the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Pius Thicknesse.

I could see him clearly, since he stood one head taller than most everyone else. Pius Thicknesse – Death Eater in the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort's pet Minister.

During his tenure, he'd hunted me and the Order, pushed ahead Voldemort's pureblood agenda, ordered captures of Muggleborns, arrested opposing wizards and witches. He'd been responsible for deaths and torture. And yet, he was still around.

Obviously, staying as the Minister was out of the question, but he had returned to his earlier post as Head of the largest department of the Ministry. It was galling, to have an active fighter for Voldemort remaining in an important position instead of being thrown into Azkaban, but that hadn't even been an option. The bitter truth was that the Ministry simply did not have enough qualified personal. Many competent wizards and witches had been killed during Voldemort's second rise, and many others were in Azkaban, even now. The Auror Office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were no exception. Dawlish, now in Azkaban, was only one example.

Thicknesse had worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for more than thirty years and knew it like the back of his hand. We couldn't afford to ignore expertise like that. And to be fair, Thicknesse had been placed under the Imperius Curse. It was confirmed unanimously by all Death Eaters we questioned, and the very fact that Voldemort had chosen to resort to the Imperius spoke for him. He wasn't a follower of Voldemort without it.

That didn't mean, however, that he wasn't as conservative as they came.

Thicknesse was a pureblood in the ninth generation and could trace his magical ancestors back even further. Of course he'd be chummy with Daphne. She saw him too, and her posture changed, barely noticeably. Her shoulders dropped a little, and I thought her face reflected a little more of the despair one might feel after finding out about the death of one's sister.

He walked over to her, pulling her in a hug.

"Daphne, my girl." Thicknesse placed a hand on her shoulder, a little gruffly, then looked at her.

"How are you coping? My deepest condolences. I came as soon as I heard."

"Thank you, Pius." Daphne's voice was toneless. "It is appreciated. It came as a complete shock – I don't know –"

She swallowed. "And I came here, and all these reporters …"

Thicknesse turned to Robards, looking decidedly disapproving. He wore deep frown.

"Really now, Gawain, this is not necessary. Her sister was just murdered. She deserves time for herself, and peace, especially from _that_ lot."

He jabbed his thumb at the corridor.

Robards gritted his teeth.

"We're already trying, sir. It's just not as simple –"

"Well, what is the problem? If they won't leave, use a few banishing charms and they will. We have no time to waste here."

Robards turned, his face stony, and walked over to the hole, out into the corridor.

"You heard the man. On my call – one, two, _three_-"

Cries of _Depulso_ echoed through corridor. Spelllight from other spells flickered red on the walls, lighting up everything for but a second. People cursed, screamed and were flung around; violently pushed backwards, against the walls, down the stairs. Cameras broke, crashing to the ground, setting off small explosions, and within five minutes, Daphne had gotten her wish. The Leaky Cauldron was resting in deep silence.

Williamson looked inside the room that now was no longer his crime scene for a last time, before he stomped away.

Daphne turned to the Auror as he passed her.

"I'll remember you, Auror Williamson," she said very softly. "Remember me when the time comes."

o ] [ o

Thicknesse made everyone get going. Soon, the Aurors worked undisturbed on the crime scene that was by now very much disturbed, trying to coax the last remains of the traces that far too many people had stomped over out of the room. There wasn't much more to be done, however, and soon, one after another, they started to leave.

Then Thicknesse noticed me.

"Potter," he said with a nod. "Daphne tells me good things. Keep up the good work."

I noticed Robards staring at us with a mixture of hate and fear. I thought I knew what Daphne had done to _convince_ him to release me. The question was what would happen when Thicknesse heard _bad_ things from Daphne. I had no real desire to find out.

Thicknesse had turned back to Robards.

"Any results so far?"

Robards pulled himself together.

"She was murdered in the bed, the healer says. At least twelve hours ago. We found a wand. It is currently … getting examined."

My eyebrows rose.

Apparently, Daphne had been quite thorough. Thicknesse didn't notice the slight hesitation in Robards' sentence.

"I want this cleared up as quickly as possible. Everything else is less important, Gawain. A murder of a member of one of our most renowned families is bad."

He said it as though it wasn't always.

"Do whatever you have to find the killer. And aid Daphne if she needs something." The last was said somewhat sharply. Then he looked at me and I received a distracted smile, while he fumbled around at his breast pocket. "And Potter."

Robards looked like he had swallowed something sour. I pounced on that at once.

"We'd like a copy of the site report."

"Do it," commanded Thicknesse. He pulled out a golden pocket watch and snapped open the lid. Then he sighed.

"I must be off. I'm already late for the Head meeting. First Calvin and his nonsense proposal of a tribune, and now this, Merlin, what a mess." He shook his head and turned to Daphne. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask, dear. Martha is constantly anxious, ever since Sterling … well. She'd be delighted if you came over for dinner one of these days, in any case. Potter."

He nodded to me, and disapparated.

Well. I'd basically given free reign. That was nice, and Robards knew that as well, the way he glowered at me. His hand slammed down on the table.

"Here," he growled. "Your _report_. Feel free to see that you come to same conclusion I did." He paused and his eyes narrowed.

"Your little bitch bailed you out, Potter. _Again_," he hissed. "But eventually, you will have outlived her usefulness. It always works that way. Despite what you're think, you are not special, not in the least. When they're done with you, they will let you fall. And I will be there, waiting. Don't ever forget that."

He turned around to go, calling over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Potter? Enjoy your free weekend. On Monday, seven on the dot, you'll be back where you belong – the Supreme Mugwump owes me a favour, and after all, in your case, there's a risk of flight. And obviously, you're suspended."

He darted me a last hateful glare and walked out of the room. If there had been a door, he would've slammed it shut. Tough luck. Shouldn't have blasted it off earlier. I stared after him, then shook myself out of stupor. So he was planning to get an official temporary detainment order. Well, best get cracking then.

I walked over to the bed, where now only two healer-in-training in their lime green St. Mungo's robes were working to prepare the body for transporting it off into their morgue chamber, taking one last look.

Her eyes were closed, the golden hair fanned out like a halo around her head. She was wearing an almost-but-not-quite transparent pink silk negligée. The way she lay, it almost looked like a sheet of liquid, shimmering softly and flowing over her in a way that hid nothing. The tips of her breast were two small peaks in a darker area that was the areola. It reached to her knees, but parted before that, a small, flower-patterned border that lined the dress slit and had slid down the right side of her leg, leaving it bare. She wasn't wearing any panties.

She could have been sleeping, except she was dead.

The garment was fastened around her slim, white neck that was otherwise bare; leaving the paleness of her skin as perhaps the only visible sign that hinted at her death. The healer joined me and the two assistants, observing the trainees and their implementation of the stasis charms.

"How long has she been dead?" I asked him.

"The way her magic looked … more than twelve hours. I'd say she died sometime around midnight, perhaps half an hour more or less."

Well, her skin was certainly pale enough. I stared at her body again and frowned. Something wasn't right. I felt like I was missing something. It was there, just at the edge of my thoughts, poking and prodding but eluding my grasp to pin it down. My gaze travelled from her bare feet up to her head. A dead girl in nothing but a silk negligée. Nothing out of the ordinary. And still … I was sure I was forgetting something important. Damned if I could figure out what, though.

"Are you done, sir?"

The hesitant voice ripped me from my thoughts. I looked up.

"Oh. Yes, I am."

One of the trainees had asked the question. They were ready to carry the body away.

"This was the way you found her, right?" I asked. "Nothing changed, anything moved, something like that?"

The other one stared at me scandalised.

"Of course not, sir! That is the first thing we learn – we never touch anything. All we do is cast the diagnosis and stasis spells, and carry it away when the Aurors are done."

Together, they lifted her up, carefully moving their wands and lowering her back onto a sheet they'd prepared. Then, the healer-in-charge pulled out the St. Mungo's Portkey and placed it on top of her.

"Careful now – you need to keep hold of the sheet with one hand and touch the Portkey with the other. Otherwise it will remain here. Portkeys never work directly on things lacking life or magic."

The trainees nodded at the words of the healer and gripped the sheet studiously. Apparently, they were just beginning their training. I lifted my hands, placating.

"Right, but I only meant – perhaps anyone else did?"

They shook their heads. The healer answered.

"You saw her just like we did. I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. If anything was taken away, it happened before we or your colleagues arrived."

He nodded to me, and activated the Portkey with his finger; and then they were gone, with the body, and we were alone.

Sunlight fell through the windows into the destroyed guest room, making Daphne's wavy hair shimmer brilliantly. Motes of dust danced in the beams. Somewhere, downstairs, ran water.

She shook her head.

"So what now, Harry?"

I shrugged and cast a Homenum Revelio charm. With a little practise, you could see what people _had_ been here, additionally to what people were here. It needed to be powered just right, and the more time you wanted include, the more complicated it got.

Of course I got a completely useless picture.

Hordes of Aurors and other people had been through the room since I woke next to Astoria, so finding any relevant trace was impossible. It was, however, standard Auror procedure. I just hoped someone had actually followed it, instead of simply swooping down on me and the wand, as Robards had done. I cast the charm again, including Daphne as a match, and found she had indeed told the truth. She hadn't sat a damn foot into this room recently.

I chewed out a curse and summoned the report that was still lying where Robards had left it; next to Daphne, on the table. It was a sand-yellow folder, standard Ministry colour, not too thick, and theoretically containing anything that was of interest. I flipped a few pages back, to the first entries.

_Standard human detection charm: Three persons, excluding caster._

There it was. In blue ink, and shooting Robards simpleton-theory out of the damn window. I threw the folder on the ground, cursing.

"Probably too much to expect Robards to actually read something. Bastard most likely simply ignored that bit, since it didn't fit in his neat case."

Angrily, I stomped over to the table where Daphne was standing, having watched the proceedings in idle curiosity. At least that was what I thought. It was hard to tell what she really felt.

"Three persons. Since we both know it wasn't me and Astoria didn't kill herself, the last one looks like our man."

I looked at the table, at the two chairs, both polished oak. The tabletop looked like one single big slice cut out of an enormous trunk.

I stared at the other side of the room where the bed stood, facing the door and the hole that still marred the white wall.

"Huh."

"What do you think?" she asked.

I looked at her.

"I'm thinking that this doesn't make any sense. She's wearing her nightwear. Why would she take a room here, if she didn't want to meet someone? To _sleep_ here?"

"I does seem unlikely," Daphne agreed. "But then, Morgana only knows what whims that child could exhibit."

A look of disgust crept on her face.

"Then again, perhaps it was a meeting of a different kind."

I choked on my words.

"Has she … has she ever invited company to a room _before_?"

Daphne shrugged.

"Not to my knowledge, but perhaps it was a new kink. She had a bunch of those."

Like getting busy with her sister. I shook my head, trying to clear it of unwanted images.

"Right. Well. Regardless, she wanted to meet someone here, and we both know the man who came to her room wasn't me. However, she wouldn't have waited for him lying in the bed."

Daphne shot me a pointed look.

I rolled my eyes.

"Alright, so she would. But my _point_ is –"

I walked around the little table.

"Let's assume she sat here. It seems a likely place to wait, if she _wasn't_ lying in the bed."

I sat down.

"I can see the door from here. If I sit down on the other side, I can see the door opening in the mirror."

I pointed to the large mirror that took up the wall behind me, over the dressing table.

"And the bed is exactly opposed to the door. Regardless of where she waited, she couldn't be surprised. The door opened, and she allowed him in. She knew him, and was waiting for him. They talked. What happened then is anyone guess. Did he suddenly pull his wand and kill her? If so, why? Why didn't she fight? How did I end up here, and where did the man Tom saw coming up go?"

I frowned. "There isn't even a motive. If they knew each other and got into a fight over whatever, there'd be signs of a struggle. There are none. She knew him, trusted him enough to be completely unsuspecting, and he suddenly killed her. Whatever for?"

Daphne flipped through the report she'd picked up, idly. Her red lacquered nails brushed over the pages.

"So many questions, Harry. I thought you would find answers for me?"

I darted her an ill-humoured look.

"Oh, there is an answer alright," I said. "_'It didn't happen that way, since there are too many questions.'_ Do you like that one better?"

"I'm not interested in how it didn't happen either."

"Of course not," I said surly. "Give me that."

I snatched the report out of her hand and scanned it, again and again.

"Time of dearth: Midnight … Location of death: Bed (?) … No items found on the body ... Wand ... wand ... Prior Incantatem: Killing Curse; Prior Uti: Harry James Potter …"

"Maybe the murderer never was in the room," she said. "That is possible, isn't it?"

"That is highly unlikely. They'd have to have prepared the room in advance or execute some grandiosely complex scheme with killing her from afar." I looked up and saw her looking at me, giving a small shrug. I shook my head.

"No, there's something we're missing. Bah." I stuffed the report into my pocket with my good arm angrily. "Nothing more to be done here though. Go home, Daphne. If I find out anything, I'll come over."

Daphne gave an acquiescing nod, then pulled out her amethyst ring. Absentmindedly, she touched it with her wand and it glowed blue.

"What will you do next?" she asked.

"I'll visit St Mungo's. Hopefully, I'll find a Healer there."

She nodded again.

"I see. Getting more expertise on Astoria's death?"

"No," I said. "Getting my arm fixed."

* * *

_**Review!**_


	15. Chapter 15

–––**CHAPTER 15–––**

**L**OST IN thought, I walked down the narrow wooden staircase that led down into the pub. Sparse sunlight fell through the small windows, creating a golden glow that permeated the room. No one was here anymore. The Department had cleared the building only half an hour ago, and new guests had yet to arrive. I turned right and walked past the empty tables.

How might it have been, here, yesterday? The man simply walked in. Some guests had seen him walk upstairs. None had seen him walk back down. And yet, he hadn't been me. So how had I ended up there? And what for this morning? The tip the department had gotten by a traceless note, or so the report said. Just a particularly shy guest that stumbled upon us? Or the murderer, trying to make sure their plan to frame me came off?

"Oh my, Mr. Potter!"

I was startled out of my thoughts. Tom, the old bartender, was using the lull to clean the tables. He clenched his soapy rag, staring at me wide-eyed, but then shook his bald head.

"Sorry for shouting at you like that, Mr. Potter. I was simply surprised. I didn't see you coming in."

I nodded at him, before I suddenly registered what he had said. I stopped cold.

"What did you say?"

A frown crossed the old bartender's face.

"I said I was sorry for shouting at you. You seemed in thoughts. I must have startled you. Is everything alright, Mr. Potter?"

I impatiently waved away his apology.

"No, that wasn't what I meant. You said – well, it doesn't matter. Could I ask you a few questions, Tom?"

He put the rag down and nodded.

"Sure. Sit down, I'll get us a cup of tea."

He went over to the bar, which was to the right of the staircase if you came down, and closer to the Charing Cross side of the pub than the Diagon Alley one. Right after you entered from the Muggle side, there lead off the little corridor that ended up at the parlour used if a guest rented a private dining room, and it right next to it, the staircase went up. If you entered from Diagon Alley, you had to cross nearly the entire length of the pub including marching past the bar to reach it.

Tom returned with two cups and placed them onto the clean table.

"There you go, Mr. Potter."

I nodded my thanks, and softly blew at the hot tea, gathering my thoughts.

"So how do you usually end up renting rooms, Tom?"

He took a sip of his own cup and shrugged.

"People either call me to book, or they come directly. They ask for a room, pay it, and I hand them the key. That's how it works."

"And Astoria? Did she use the Floo?"

Tom looked down.

"Awful affair, that. I was never sure what to think of her – not that I saw her often, mind, perhaps three times ever, but of course I hear stories. And now she's dead … the Leaky Cauldron is over four hundred years old, Mr. Potter, did you know? The origin of Diagon Alley. Was always in our family, and when I die, my nephew will take over."

His voice carried passion and pride. The old man liked his work, bless him. Far too many people preferred complaining over how awful their work was. And thus, the miserable tone was genuine, when he continued.

"No one ever has died here. Until now. Bad advertisement, I tell you. Business is down, just look around."

His hand made a mournful arch through the empty pub.

"And Astoria?" I reminded him gently.

He took another sip of his tea and stared at me.

"Well, as I already told your colleagues, she came in around ten o'clock. In the evening. Said she wanted a room."

"Did she say for what and for how long?"

"She didn't say and I didn't ask. I never do that, Mr. Potter. We are always discreet. She paid the rent for one night, and went up the stairs. That was the last time I saw her."

He stared down into his tea, continuing after a short pause to gather his thoughts.

"An hour later, or maybe an hour and a half, the man came. Seemed to know where he was going, up the stairs as well, and that could have been to any room, of course, but hers was the only one occupied that night. So he must have gone to her."

I bent forward.

"And you see everyone that wants to go upstairs, don't you?"

He looked at me indignantly.

"Yes, of course I do! I'm at the bar during that time of the day, and anyone who wants to walk upstairs is walking past my nose. I am old, but I'm not blind, Mr. Potter."

"I didn't mean to imply you were, Tom," I said. "But didn't you just say you didn't see me coming in?"

"Well, yes. But you didn't use the stairs, so obviously I couldn't." Tom stared at me as if I was a little slow on the uptake. I didn't mind at all.

"I didn't use the stairs," I repeated. "Quite right."

I leant back and folded my hands. The idea was starting to take shape.

"Tell me, Tom, people can apparate in and out of your pub at their convenience? You didn't put up charms preventing that? I saw people arrive through apparition, today."

He shook his head.

"No. Only the Floo is restricted. You can't Floo into rooms, without having had a call first, and you can't Floo out at all. The connections are old."

"So is it not just as likely that Astoria left the room at one point? She didn't need the Floo Network, if she could simply apparate."

"I suppose so," he said eventually. "What are you getting at, Mr. Potter?"

"I think that the man you saw is a key to this puzzle. You saw him enter, but didn't see him leave. He left the room without using the stairs, just like I did when I entered. I think he might or might not have killed her at that time. I think that she might or might not have died in your room. Everyone could have been everywhere, while the world thought she and her murderer were in your room. In short, everything is quite less obvious than it first appears."

I emptied my tea cup and rose.

"Thanks, Tom. You've been a great help."

Tom smiled at me.

"You're welcome. In fact, now that you mention it …"

He paused and thought.

"I might have heard something. Yes, I'm sure I did. The room is directly above the bar, you know. It is quite possible that what I heard was someone apparating."

I stared at him.

"Apparating, you say?"

I cupped my chin with my hand.

"I'd like to test something, if you don't mind. Can you apparate into the room?"

He fiddled with his tea, and looked at me, awkwardly.

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Potter. You see, I never learned how. Not everyone went to Hogwarts and is as talented as you are."

I stared at him, nonplussed. That possibility hadn't entered my mind at all.

"Well, no problem," I said after a second of pulling myself together. "I'll apparate, and you tell me what you hear."

I rose, and apparated upstairs, back into the room where I'd woken up this morning. The window was now open, letting in fresh summer air, and slowly dispelling the last traces of the stale smell of death. I turned, vanishing with the usual popping noise and reappearing in front of the mirror. I repeated the process twice, back and forth across the room, before I stopped and went downstairs again. Tom was standing behind his bar, looking at the ceiling, frowning.

"Three times," he said. "You apparated three times in the room. But it wasn't like that."

I leant against the bar, looking at him attentively.

"What wasn't like what?"

"Yesterday, I mean. It was … different. Something was different." He frowned, then shook his head. "Can't figure it out. There was something about that sound … maybe it simply was louder. Yours I could barely hear. I remember thinking something might have broken in two upstairs, that's why I noticed it to begin with, you see?"

"Hm." I tapped my fingers on the counter, thinking. "Do you not notice every time someone apparates, then?"

"Not usually." He shook his bald head again. "It's such a common sound. However – and I wouldn't swear on Merlin's grave, mind you, but this is what I think – after the first time, I paid more attention, and I would say no one else apparated away, unless they did it silently."

Now that was interesting. My mind ran though the possible consequences of that observation, while I stared at the dark, oaken ceiling, trying to wrest their secrets from them. Had Astoria's murderer apparated away after the deed was done?

"When was this, approximately?"

Tom gave me an apologetic smile.

"I didn't look at the time, Mr. Potter. It was after the man had arrived, of course, but not too long afterwards – maybe twenty minutes? Half an hour? The last guest left at midnight, which was when I closed up, so before then."

A time frame of about an hour, then – between eleven o'clock and midnight. Not bad as far as narrowing down the time of the crime went, if that is what it was, but sure an awfully long time for murder. What had _happened_ in that room?

My left arm brushed against the bar as I turned away from it, pondering the possibilities, and I winced. I really needed to get that fixed before I did anything else. I smiled at the old bartender, and shook his hand.

"Thanks for your help, Tom. I have to go. My arm reminds me it doesn't like being in two parts."

He nodded.

"Of course. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Potter. And keep your money," he added as he spotted my clumsy attempts of fishing for a coin in my left pocket with my right hand.

I smiled at the old man and left, walking out into the backyard with the bins and the wall where you had to tap the brick. I glanced at my watch. They'd returned it too me, too. Still in one piece, even.

_On Monday, seven on the dot, you'll be back where you belong._

I growled. That remained to be seen. It was noon. I still had forty-three hours left to find the murderer. Robards wouldn't know what hit him. And his favour with the Surpreme Mugwump he could shove up his arse.

I disapparated. The clock was ticking.

o ] [ o

I passed the Welcomewitch at her desk, and I passed the first-floor corridor that treated accidents like broken arms. As if on their own accord, my legs carried me up the broad staircase, in search of … what? Answers? Geiger had to be on the forth floor.

So I stood on the fourth landing, in front of the double doors with the small windows, not even sure myself why I was now up here. Asking questions, sure. Getting almost killed was a motive, revenge perfectly feasible. Geiger was a suspect. Perfectly ordinary Auror work.

But I wasn't an Auror anymore, I worked for Daphne; Daphne, who was as beautiful and cold as a starry winter's night, and somehow bent on showing that the very same traits existed in me. Yesterday evening was distant, suddenly. I didn't need Daphne in any way or form. I wasn't like her. I resolutely pushed the doors open. I did care. Geiger's fate didn't leave me cold, and even though his state wasn't my doing, the least I could do was pay him a visit.

_So convinced. So very much like me._

Not at all. I'd convince _her_.

Or maybe, I could at least convince myself.

o ] [ o

The corridor behind the double doors on the fourth floor, housing the various wards for Spell Damage, was quiet. It was lunchtime and a Saturday to boot, all the healers still here had gone to eat. That suited me just fine.

I poked my nose into the various wards, steering clear of the locked door at very end that housed the closed ward. I opened another door, on my right, and stumbled backwards as someone stepped out at the same moment, running into me.

I caught the edge of the doorpost with my left hand, and grimaced as my broken right arm was wedged between the two of us. I was about to start on a good dressing-down, when I noticed that I had, in fact, caught an armful of attractive Asian mediwitch in snug nurse uniform. Well, what do you know. She had her long black hair tied up under a cap and looked up to me, startled; then a happy smile broke out on her face that stirred up a pang of reminiscence in my chest.

"Harry!"

It took me a second to realise whom I was holding.

"Cho! Now that is a surprise."

She grinned at me and somehow didn't appear in a hurry to leave my half-embrace. She twisted round and pulled me inside.

"Come."

It was a small white room, not more than six feet wide. It had no window, and was apparently used for changing. It was full of the lime green St Mungo's robes, and on the left, there was a shelf stacked with clipboards and empty patient records. On the far side was a small table, a chair and a kettle for tea. To the right of my leg was a bed.

The door closed behind us.

"So what are you doing here, Harry?"

Cho looked at me curiously.

"Would you believe me if I told you I came just to get treated by you?"

Her laughter tinkled through the room.

"I would give you the benefit of doubt, even though you didn't seem to know I was here."

She sat down on the empty bed and I watched in fascination how she brushed a meddlesome escaped strand of her raven black hair behind one ear and tucked a leg under her, patting a place next to her. "Sit down."

I sat down.

"Oh, but you actually are injured!"

She noticed my arm and her wand was out in a flash.

"Broken?"

"This morning, during work. I got out of the wrong side of the bed, so to speak."

"Well, we will have that fixed in no time."

Her wand moved over the cast, there was a tickling feeling and my arm was whole again. I bloody well loved magic.

"There. Done."

I moved the arm back and forth.

"As good as new. Whatever can I do to thank you, Miss Chang?"

A mischievous smile spread across her face, again lighting it up in this way that catapulted me years back, into a different time, a different life.

Better, then? Or just simpler?

"Put in a good word for me at my Healer-in-charge, explaining why I'm taking a break and getting myself invited for lunch, instead of doing my work."

But I was in the here and now, and right at this moment I quite enjoyed our banter, so maybe it was a moot point anyway. I quirked an eyebrow and grinned back at her.

"Oh really? And who would you have in mind for extending an invitation for you? Some persons might be busy, you know."

"Not busy enough to forgo catching up with an old Hogwarts sweetheart," she declared, and attached herself to my arm. "Let's go, Harry."

I shook my head, smiling and glanced at her.

"How do I even know that he will accept me as an excuse?"

She laughed.

"It's Healer Pye, Harry. He adores you."

She rose, extending her hand to pull me up.

My look fell onto her clothes. Was it just me, or was that uniform shorter now? I could have sworn there wasn't that much leg visible the last time I looked. I looked at her face and saw a slight smile.

Yeah. That topmost button definitely wasn't open five minutes ago. I thought I saw a flash of something midnight blue underneath it and didn't even try to stop the mental image from forming. Blue would definitely look good on her. Who the hell wanted yesteryear back?

o ] [ o

The Visitor's Tearoom, as the floor guide called it, had more than just tea, as it turned out. The entire upper floor was an open space and arranged with small round tables for two or four dotted all over, and you could buy small snacks and salads. Cho had something Asian, while I was content with a tea, not very hungry. There were more important things to do anyway. We had spent the last half hour catching up, for example.

After being rejected at the tryouts for a pro team in Quidditch as a seeker, she had applied to St. Mungo's. With marks in her Hogwarts certificate that did a Ravenclaw justice, she had been accepted gladly. Her N.E.W.T.S. made up for her status as a half-blood during Voldemort's reign, and since he was gone, her career looked brighter than ever. She was looking towards her promotion as an assistant healer next month.

It felt good to talk to her. She had long since shed the angsty teen phase from my fifth year – her sixth –, just like I had, and appeared to be carefree, but not careless. She was witty, clever and looked every bit as beautiful as her teenage girl had promised to be, when the attractive Asian witch made heads turn.

"I enjoyed our lunch, Harry. Very much."

And yet, when she all but asked me then to invite her again, the only thing I could think of was that she was _not_ Daphne. Daphne – well, I didn't need Daphne, but she was not Daphne, that was all. Perhaps I should have invited her anyway to get over Daphne. I knew the fixation wasn't healthy for any aspect of my life. Perhaps I _would_ have, even – but I had a case to solve by Monday morning.

And perhaps that was only an excuse, after all.

I smiled at her, then sighed.

"So did I, Cho. I'd love to take you out to dinner or something again, if you wanted to, that is, but I'm currently completely wrapped up in a murder investigation. This weekend is nothing but work, I'm afraid."

She looked disappointed, but then shrugged.

"Perhaps next week, then. Heaven knows I know what it's like to drown in work. Pye is nice enough, but his definition of a Trainee Healer is 'person to delegate all the stuff to I am too lazy to do myself'."

Her lips were quirked in a wry smile, and I laughed. She rose, the dirty plates vanishing from our table, and slowly, we walked back out of the cafeteria.

Then, I remembered something.

"Pye, wasn't he the guy who was in charge of Geiger?"

And now I knew why that other person in the room had sounded familiar when I spoke with him. Cho was the woman whose voice I'd heard through the Floo.

Her brown eyes perked up with interest at the mention of his name.

"Yeah, the poor sod that came in cursed six ways from Sunday. Is he relevant to your case?"

She held the door to the cafeteria open for me to step through, looking at me curiously.

"Possibly," I told her. "By now, you should have the body of Astoria Greengrass. She died last night, and she was the one who put him into that state. If it's alright, I'd like to speak with him – and a copy of the findings from the girl when they are done."

Cho snorted.

"Right, I wondered about that 'self-inflicted accidental spell-damage'. You know, Harry, tell your department to come up with better hush-ups. I don't do a job requiring at least five NEWT-level E's to have someone insult my intelligence. Everyone with half a brain could see that Geiger was in a fight and had the crap beaten out of him."

"Robards doesn't have a brain," I agreed.

Cho choked on a laugh and coughed. I patted her back and let my hand stay there, as we walked down the stairs to the spell damage ward. She didn't seem to mind.

"Well, I can certainly show you his room, so that you can talk to him. He's going to be released today, actually, but considering that this is my job, you have all the time you need. And I've got a friend who works for Healer Shafiq – he's the one who gets the bodies and signs the certificates. She can make you a copy. It shouldn't be a problem."

We left the staircase and were back in the spell damage ward. Cho opened a door, and motioned me inside.

"I just don't know how much good that will do – talking to him, I mean. After all, he was here all week. How could he have killed her?"

I looked past her into the room we'd just entered. It was a large, clean and bright room. Through windows streamed as yet sunlight, but thick black clouds promised bad weather outside soon. Spread throughout the room were ten beds, separated by curtains, all drawn back, a few apparatuses next to the beds, occasionally uttering a soft chirping sound, and on the white walls were a few diagrams depicting injuries caused by various Dark spells.

It was a nice room – but apart from us, it was empty.

"Er," I said. "Here. You mean, just like now?"

* * *

_**Review!**_


	16. Chapter 16

–––**CHAPTER 16–––**

**C**HO STOOD in the middle of the room, hands on her slender hips.

"Well. We will see about that."

Her face looked like Geiger wouldn't be happy when he turned up again.

"Thinks he can stand up and walk out just like that, does he?" she muttered, turning back towards the door. "We will see about that, indeed."

She brandished her wand that spat an angry crackling star, and was about to rip open the doors to the corridor, when they already opened on their own. Healer Pye bustled in, floating an unconscious Geiger behind him.

"Miss Chang, where – oh, there you are." His tone turned disapproving. "I told you to check up on him again, and I do not appreciate having to collect my patients on the stairs, because you didn't –"

Then he noticed me. At once, the deep scowl vanished and he beamed at me.

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Potter." He dumped Geiger on the bed nearest to the large window, and shook my hand enthusiastically. "Great to meet you."

I inclined my head and got my hand back.

"I have to confess, this is my fault, sir," I said. "I invited Cho to lunch and distracted her from her work. She was very dedicated – it took me ten minutes and a broken arm to convince her to leave."

I received a brilliant smile from Cho, who twirled her wand happily and then started to check over Geiger on the bed.

Healer Pye chortled.

"Oh, no harm done, Mr. Potter. I imagine no one could turn down a lunch with you, eh?" That was accompanied with a dramatic wink into my direction.

"And I found the little troublemaker, after all. It's no problem, since he was due for release today anyway – but one leaves _after_ getting the permission, of course. Everything has its proper way. You know that saying – the patient's called a patient, because he has to be patient, hahaha."

He was shaking with laughter at his own joke.

Cho rolled her eyes.

I took a deep breath and repressed the urge to throttle him.

"So he's really ready to be released? Already?"

Pye nodded happily.

"Oh yes. He's right as rain again. Of course, it might take him a while to adapt, but he can do that on his own."

"Well, I'd have a few questions for him, if you don't mind."

"Go right ahead, Mr. Potter. Miss Chang will be able to give you everything you need, I suspect you two won't have any problems, haha. I need to check up on the other patients."

He shook my hand again and bustled out of the room.

"More like checking up on the other trainees doing his job for him," Cho muttered.

I exhaled.

"What a nightmare."

"Oh, he isn't so bad, really," Cho said cheerfully. "A bit too enthusiastic and desperately unfunny, but there are worse people. _Ennervate!_"

She pointed her wand at Geiger.

"Now let's see what he has to tell us –"

Geiger jumped up and looked around wildly. His eyes suddenly settled on me. They widened and then he lunged at me.

"You!" he roared. "You were the one that helped that little bint –"

"_Stupefy_."

He collapsed back onto his bed. Cho eyed him critically.

"I'd say he doesn't like you, Harry."

I snorted.

"Really, you think?"

Cho shrugged laconically.

"It was the same with 'the girl' – he ranted about her all the time. He 'doesn't like her' either. He told me so in much detail."

She stared at the unconscious form of Geiger on the bed.

"Well, that won't do at all. _Petrificus_." The jab with her wand accompanying the spell looked rather vicious. "Let's try this again. _Ennervate_."

Geiger opened his eyes again, and tried to move, but failed to do anything except turning his head. I noticed the little finger on his left hand was missing. It looked like it had been for a while.

"Mr. Geiger," Cho said crisply. "I do not appreciate someone attacking my guests, nor them trying to steal away out of bed before they are released. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yeh said I coul'go," he muttered sullenly. "Look like I wan'ter be here?"

"_After_ I cleared you," Cho said, exasperated. "And what was that just now?"

"He helped her kill me and get away with it!" he growled. "Was goin' to pay him back, and her too –"

"And to do that, you felt it was best to jump out of the bed and onto your injured leg, and come at us like some Muggle boxer?"

"It's alright, Cho," I said quietly. "I actually came to offer commiserations, Mr. Geiger. This wasn't my case, but I'm sorry we didn't arrive sooner to stop her, Wednesday night, and that you sustained an injury –"

His face turned into a mask of fury.

"I look like I care?!" He was shouting. "Do I get a whole leg back for it? Or do I get a thousand Galleons? Or even a handful? If you ain't here to hand me a few Galleons, clear out and take your useless words with you." He spat into my direction, and only missed me because Cho reacted quickly and struck up a shield. My expression hardened. Why had I even bothered.

"Very well, Geiger. Since that is your opinion, I want to make something very clear. In no way, shape or form is it my fault that you were attacked _or_ that she got away with it –"

An incoherent scream of rage interrupted me as Geiger heard my words. He struggled against Cho's spell, in vain; unable to do more than jerk around his head in helpless anger and trying to spit at me again, teeth bared in a snarl. He looked more like an animal than a wizard.

I stared at him in disgust and moved a step away from his bed.

"Shut up and listen, you little shit. Yeah, you now have a bad leg. Cry me a fucking river. The girl is dead. _Murdered_. That's somewhat worse than your problem. And if I find out that you had something to do with her death, you'll be in Azkaban faster than you can say 'it wasn't me'."

Because, currently, it was me in Azkaban.

I didn't tell him the last part. Instead, I observed his reaction. First was the ugly look in my direction at the insult. I was quite sure he'd have attacked me with his bare hands if he had been able to. At the mention of Astoria's death, he quite suddenly stopped struggling – surprised, maybe, or concerned? – I couldn't tell which, followed by a pleased expression. He was happy about it. I fought down the urge to wipe off the smile with my wand.

"Heard something you like, Mr. Geiger? This means now comes the fun part, where I get to ask questions and you answer. Where have you been last night between ten p.m. and midnight?"

He was still angry, still pleased, but most prominently, there now was an uneasy look in his eyes. _Bingo._

"In this bloody bed, 'course. Bloody witch wouldn't let me –"

"You mean, just like you were ten minutes ago?"

I turned to Cho.

"I don't suppose there is a way to verify if he left the room?"

"There sure is," she chirped. "Of course that isn't the purpose, but that Auto-Graph Quill over there, for example, monitors the magic of the patient resting in this bed."

She pointed to one of the apparatuses next to the bed that looked like a cross of an old-fashioned radio set and a coffee brewer, with a stack of parchment on the right. She moved over to the device, grabbing a piece of the parchment and an odd, dark quill that was lying on top of it, and started to sketch something.

"If he was absent, it would have – oh my!"

She stopped and handed me a parchment with a graph that was a straight line, except in two places. If the numbers were times, it showed a dent right now and another one from roughly quarter past eleven to quarter to twelve yesterday night. How interesting.

Geiger eyed us nervously.

"Mr. Geiger," I said pleasantly. "Would you tell me why you went to the Leaky Cauldron last night and killed Astoria Greengrass?"

His eyes widened, but he resolutely clamped his lips shut and turned his head away.

"Stop behaving like a five year old, or I'll treat you as one," Cho told him, annoyed. "It's entirely possible to paralyse your head but not your mouth. And I'm sure I could dig up something that would make you talk. So where have you been?"

His face adapted the sullen look again.

"I can' remember."

"Geiger –"

"Well, I can' remember wha' happened before she attacked me either, now can I? I _told_ her!"

He stared at Cho angrily. Cho rolled her eyes.

"Yes, we've been over that, Mr. Geiger. Now, if you would answer Mr. Potter's questions, please, since I'm quite curious too –"

"But I _can' remember_ –"

I frowned, darting a sidelong glance at Cho.

"Any chance he's actually right?"

"You believe him?" Cho's tone was sceptical. "He's obviously making stuff up in order to skive explaining. 'I can't remember' is an awfully convenient excuse."

I froze and stared at her for a few seconds. Very slowly, I placed the parchment with the graph on the bedside table, and turned towards her fully.

"Yes. It is, indeed, very convenient." My voice sounded oddly flat to my own ears. "Can you check?"

To Cho's credit, she didn't ask any more questions. Instead, she crinkled her forehead, thinking. I wasn't sure what I would have answered anyway. _Hey, that's what I said when I woke up next to a dead body and my boss told me I was a murderer?_ I suddenly had a very bad feeling regarding last night.

"There is a diagnosicharm, of course. I just haven't done that yet. I mean, ever." Cho's voice brought me back to the matter at hand. She eyed the petrified Geiger and her expression became decidedly evil. "I can try, however. I think he just volunteered as my practice dummy."

Apparently, she hadn't quite forgiven him yet for trying to escape her care. Geiger stared up at her in sudden fear.

"Wha'? Hold on, I dun wan'ter –"

"_Petrificus Totalus._" Cho's voice made short work of his complaints. "You were the one talking about it all the time. It won't harm you, so stop complaining."

The look from the petrified Geiger became a little less mutinous. Cho pointed her wand at his forehead and her face adapted a concentrated look. There was nothing I saw, no lights or sounds or anything. She just remained bent over him, concentrating, with her wand raised. I wondered if perhaps it was some variant of the Legilimency spell.

After maybe a minute, she suddenly straightened. The perplexed expression on her face told me everything I needed to know before she even spoke. Exactly as I had feared.

"He was indeed obliviated. And from anything I've read, I'd say it was a masterful job."

o ] [ o

I left the pleasant company of Cho a few minutes later. I couldn't say the same for Geiger. I had been silly to apologise to him. Had it been silly to try it, too? I'd known people like him. Crooks, lowlifes, beggars, disregarded by society, left alone and forgotten – and yet they'd arranged themselves with their role in life, and in a odd reversal of cause and effect any attempt to treat them as anything else than what they were produced only scorn. So maybe it had. People like Geiger knew their place, didn't want any pity, didn't know what to do with it, so it was a waste of time to spare them more than a cursory thought and an odd Sickle. Everyone did it that way. Didn't they?

_Everyone_ knew and accepted their place too. _But not you. Never you. You __don't care__ for the usual rules._

I sighed and shut out that part of my brain that sounded too much like Daphne, concentrating on the facts at hand. It looked so clear. Geiger had nearly been killed by Astoria and was now crippled. He had heard she was at the Leaky Cauldron from someone, and snuck out of the hospital to get his revenge. Tom saw him enter, Geiger went upstairs, killed Astoria, and apparated away. Tom had heard that as well. The time fitted perfectly with the one from Cho's machine. He, as opposed to Astoria, could have made enough noise.

I had witnesses and evidence. He had a motive and the opportunity. Any Auror would've hauled him in. He was a known criminal, and behaved suspiciously. Making a case with him in court would be laughably easy.

Then why did it feel so unsatisfying?

o ] [ o

By now, the sun was completely hidden behind threatening looking clouds. I stood on the busy street in Muggle London, in front of the old department store, with the buses rushing by nose to tail, and the pedestrians hurrying from shops to stores. The air was cool; I closed my cloak, shutting out the gusts of chilly wind that suddenly swept through the street.

The answer to that question, I thought, as I walked away from St. Mungo's through the people to sort out my problems, was that there were still facts this explanation left unresolved. My appearance there made no sense. That I had used the wand made no sense. Geiger wasn't a whiz, neither in the brains department nor when it came to magic, so that he should have created this elaborate frame-job made no sense.

I could've ignored it. I could've left it as an irritating detail that just didn't fit and never would. It was the neat, clean way to solve this case. It was exactly the kind of case Robards had built against me. And that was the reason why I'd left Geiger, instead of taking him to the Ministry, and why I continued my search. Even if that made no sense either. The only people in that room _had_ been Geiger, Astoria and myself. There was no room for a fourth person. It really was an enigma.

Maybe Geiger was the murderer, after all. If that was the case, I could always catch him later, and if I needed him to get out of Azkaban myself, hell knows I would. Cho had given me his address, apparently, he lived "in a hut somewhere in Dartmoor". But as of yet, I still had almost two days left, and I planned on spending them productively.

And there still was the matter of my missing evening. The new angle, the one I had been hit over the head with as I visited Geiger, was something I didn't like to think about. Not thinking about it, however, was not something I could afford. The truth was that I didn't believe it was a case of too much Firewhisky anymore. But the idea that Geiger should have the skill to Obliviate me (and also himself, to get rid of the evidence of his own memories) was just ludicrous. I hadn't dared to ask Cho to perform the spell on myself as well. I didn't want her to know what I suspected.

Or maybe I had merely been afraid to know for sure myself.

I had reached the embankment of the Thames and stared out over the river. The dark, almost black clouds turned the water leaden. It was going to rain any minute now. Behind the narrow sea wall, white ferries steered towards the landing pier. People wanted to board, others stood on deck and waited to disembark. It was really all just a question of transportation. Someone had gotten me into that room at the Leaky Cauldron, and that someone had to be connected with my missing memory and Astoria's death. If I found the former, everything else would unravel on its own.

I turned around and crossed the street, walking back the short way to the Ministry of Magic. I had an idea whom to ask about transportation. I also wanted to check our register of Obliviators. Both would be done in the Department of Mysteries.

A few hundred yards before the entrance, the first raindrops started to fall. I frowned at the red telephone booth at the end of the narrow side street.

Then I just apparated down.

o ] [ o

In the bare stone corridor that led from the lift to the circular room at the centre of the Department of Mysteries I met no one. I pushed open the black door at its end and stepped inside, waiting for it to close before I announced my destination. One of the twelve identical doors was an Anydoor, which could open into any room in the Department of Mysteries except the Room of Love.

"Tiberius Croaker," I told the shadowy room with the eerie blue-burning candles that never flickered, even if there was a draught. The doors around me stopped their dizzying spinning and the black door nearest to me cracked open, allowing a slanted beam of dim golden light to slip out. I pushed it open, entering the office. Croaker was an Unspeakable, and we were good friends.

Alright, so he couldn't stand me. But to be fair, he couldn't stand anyone, and we did have a working relationship.

He was inside, just like he seemingly always was, behind his desk, next to a golden ball of light that floated over the table surface and shone on a few papers he was studying. It was the only source of light. He looked up, scowling, as the door moved. His face, like most parts of the office, were draped in shadows. Through the darkness gleamed glass and metal in the back of the room, jars with brains inside, since that was his speciality, and other stuff I didn't want to know about. The darkness was quite fine with me.

The light floated up to the ceiling, becoming brighter, and revealed the obscure back. I distracted myself with the complex diagrams in multicolour and their moving and spinning lines that occupied the right-hand wall.

"Potter."

Croaker sounded sour. I didn't mind him. He always sounded sour. Instead I stared. There was something that looked like a modified wand floating on a pedestal, and, for some reason, the head of a monkey. The head was on his desk, which was black and tidy, and it stared at me from beady black eyes, which was just a little bit creepy.

I moved.

The eyes followed me.

I shook my head.

"Morning, Croaker. Your furnishing is as lovely as always."

"Don't mind Quaxlax, Potter. I'm teaching him how to think. What do you want?"

He leant back into his armchair and folded his arms coldly. I conjured myself a chair and received an angry look for my troubles.

"Pick the part of your brain you haven't yet transferred to a jar."

"Very funny, Potter. At least I have one. If I were to use yours, I wouldn't need more than a potions vial to store it. Now get on with it."

"Right," I said, ignoring that he never denied my claim. I didn't want to think about it further. "About the Obliviator's register. I need to have a look. Looks like we have a case of illegal obliviation at our hands. You have a copy here? Both internal and external?"

Croaker dug in his desk drawers and produced a bunch of sheets he pushed towards me. They carried the sign of the Ministry of Magic, written in this typical, characterless script. All of our self-writing records looked like that, of course. What was worse was that some clerks had adapted the style. Was there greater proof of the triumph of bureaucracy?

The list in front of me contained all you needed to know about our Obliviators. Technically speaking, it was forbidden to tamper with the memory of a wizard. Only the Wizengamot could grant the Ministry an exception, and I knew it hadn't – so if someone _had_ been out and obliviating Geiger, it was against the law. However, he was an unimportant low-life, and worse breaches had happened. The list would contain an entry in any case, but predictably, there was no entry for a _Geiger_, only a handful of hiking Muggles that spotted a Black Hebridian in Scotland. I closed the file and handed it back to him. The relief I felt had nothing at all to do with the fact that there was no entry with the name _Potter_ either.

"And the external?"

Croaker snorted and angled his wand backwards.

A cabinet rattled to his right. Out of the darkness zoomed a file and landed on his desk. It looked suspiciously thin. He pushed it towards me.

"Help yourself. It's exactly like the Animagus register."

I grimaced. I had suspected as much. Croaker eyed me carefully.

"If it was me looking for the culprit, Potter, I'd suspect everyone that _isn't_ on there."

I pushed back the cover and stared at a blank page.

The Unspeakable broke into a cackling laughter, that turned into wheezes soon after. I scowled at him.

"Very funny, Croaker. I'm laughing later, if you don't mind."

"If that was all, feel free to leave, Potter."

I shook my head.

"No, I need to know a few particulars about magical transportation. You know, you answer a few more questions and I'll give you one name that should be on here. How about it?"

Croaker looked at me suspiciously, then sighed.

"Make it short."

I fired away, not feeling very hopeful about the first question.

"I know we have specialists to track Apparition. That still working half a day after the occurrence?"

He chewed on his lip thoughtfully, and then asked: "How many people been through there?"

I grimaced.

"Half the Ministry by now."

"Forget it."

"That's what I feared. How about Portkeys or Floo Calls?"

"No and yes, but it won't help you."

I glared at the monkey's head. It glared back.

"None at all for Portkeys? Why the bloody hell not?"

Croaker shrugged one shoulder.

"Invent one, Potter."

"What about Floo Calls?"

"Can be monitored, but you have to set it up in advance."

"Doesn't help me any."

"What I said."

I growled angrily and Croaker tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently. "What's this about, Potter? If you coughed up your actual problem, I could tell you which questions are a waste of my time. You know, like the ones you asked until now."

I sighed. "I have three persons in a room. One is dead. Neither of the other two is likely to be the murderer." I glared at the monkey's head again, imagining it was Robards. "And what's more, the room was under constant surveillance, but only one of them was seen entering it. I want to know when, how and why the other arrived. You just told me that's impossible to figure out."

"Because that's how it works, Potter. If every case of murder could be solved with two spells and a potion, we would hardly need overpaid adventure-seekers like you to do it." Croaker snorted. "And constant surveillance, I'm sure. I bet I could've sneaked past your _surveillance_ with a standard disillusionment charm. What you _should_ be asking is, how could someone kill without being present?"

"And?"

"Well, do I get paid to figure that out or do you? It's magic, Potter. It could be this Peruvian Inca spell I read about that allows the Priests to claim possession of a different body, or maybe some Voodoo ritual if you have a Togolese Mama at hand. Whatever floats your boat."

I rubbed my temples. An obscure Inca spell or Voodoo magic. I really, really didn't think that was the right direction. I had the feeling that Croaker was being deliberately absurd. And it seemed like I was stuck.

Croaker started to move the oddly shaped wand on the pedestal around, absentminded. It emitted a strangely glowing puff of smoke. I thought of the wand and the Killing Curse, and decided to give it one more try.

"Well, one last thing, and I'll leave you to your … er, experiments." I eyed the monkey's head sceptically. "Prior Uti. How does it work?"

"You don't want to know that."

"Alright, then what, exactly, does it do?"

"And that you know yourself perfectly well."

I shrugged.

"Well, it shows the last person to use the wand."

"And there you have the exact definition of the spell, Potter." Croaker jabbed his thick finger at me. "To the letter. If you feel you don't know how 'use' or 'last' are defined, go find a damn dictionary, not me."

I looked at him annoyed. "Well, there's a puzzle for the good half of your brain, then. Currently, we have a wand in the Department that tells me I used it, but I wasn't anywhere near it. Think about that, will you?"

I rose, and closed the useless register.

"Well, you've been charming as always, Croaker, so I feel content to give it to you. Gilderoy Lockhart, I think you'll find him in the Permanent Spell Damage Ward down in St. Mungo's. Before he accidentally used it on himself, he was quite gifted."

"Go bugger yourself, Potter."

I grinned at his response. He was as abrasive as always, but underneath he looked actually somewhat pleased. I'd given him something to think about. The thing with the wand would keep him up.

"I'm gone, and thanks for your help."

o ] [ o

I made a short trip to my office to pick up the Greengrass folders from my desk. It was just a quarter after one, which meant the already sparse population of the Office on a Saturday was just starting to trickle back in from lunch. It also meant I had less than forty-two hours to find a murderer that was not me.

Apparently, my suspension was by now common knowledge. As I made my way through the slowly filling Department, I left a trail of unrest in my wake, spreading through the office. Looks and whispers, jumping from workplace to workplace, but no one with the courage or desire to confront me. Maybe they would have, had Robards or Williamson been in. Neither were here now. Both usually didn't show their face on weekends – except, of course, when they could arrest me.

Maybe I would have liked a confrontation.

Someone else was here, though. On the way back out, I met Pat. He looked agitated and his robes were more wrinkled than ever, and when he saw me, his eyes widened. He pulled me straight into his cubicle and created a Private Sphere, afterwards merely staring at me. I frowned. His hands moved nervously through his red hair and over his robes, trying to smooth the creases, a task as fruitless as telling.

"What's the matter, Pat? I need –"

"Malfoy is dead."

His abrupt words stopped me dead in my tracks.

"_What?_"

Pat gripped me by the shoulders.

"Who did you tell you about your visit?"

"No one," I said. "You knew, I knew and your man on Azkaban Island knew. That's it. You think someone killed him?"

Pat lowered his arms.

"I don't know," he muttered. "Hell, I don't know anything anymore. The healers say it's a completely natural death. His heart simply stopped beating."

"Well, then everything's cleared up, isn't it? He died. That happens."

I gave Pat a fake smile, and felt my thoughts racing, trying to fit this new piece of information into the picture. The hell it was a natural death. He relaxed slightly, though.

"I guess so," he sighed. "I'm probably imagining things. So what's up with you? They say Robards suspended you until further notice."

"I am," I said. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been, and I'm in all kinds of trouble. Look, I really have to go. We can talk later, right? I'm busy with the Greengrass murder … wish me luck there, will you?"

I left him standing there, somewhat lost, staring after me. I felt like a truly shitty friend. And then I apparated home.

o ] [ o

Five minutes later I was out of the door again and on my way to Azkaban. Broom in hand, I apparated to the shore near Newcastle, and started the flight out over the North Sea. As opposed to last time, the wind came in strong gusts from the left, cold northern gales that buffeted me around. The weather hadn't changed from when I'd left St. Mungo's. If anything, it was getting worse. Five minutes into the flight, it started to rain.

It felt like thousands of little needles pricking my skin until I managed to apply the Impervius Charm on myself and, after a bit of thought, expanded it into a bubble. Now I didn't get wet, but still couldn't see much farther than the tip of my broom. Every direction looked the same: a spherical room some ten feet wide, painted on all sides with grey sheets of rain. I was flying blind, all but impossible to find the lone island under these circumstances.

Flying lower was useless; below me, the grey waves of the sea surged, at least nine feet high, capped with white crests that the wind ripped away even before the wave broke and crashed back down. The air was cold, full of their roar and their salty spray, making my hands numb and the broom slippery. And the sea, too, looked the same in every direction.

"Point me," I muttered, and my wand tugged in my hand and pointed to the left.

At least I was still flying east. I'd reach land, eventually.

I thought the next coast was Norway.

o ] [ o

I eventually turned around and flew back, convinced that I'd passed the island already, starting to fly search patterns, not unlike during a Quidditch game. The island of Azkaban was my Snitch, and every bit as elusive. It was cold, I couldn't see for more than a few feet, I desperately needed to find it, and I hadn't been a seeker for nothing.

It wasn't my eyes that found the island, however. After half an hour that could as well have been two, I noticed the roar of the waves below me becoming distinctly different – louder, wilder, with a different rhythm. The sea sounded downright furious, and the only possible reason for that could be the waves pounding against the jagged, tooth-like rocks of Azkaban Island. I plunged down, and when the mist thickened more and more, I knew I had found it. The thicker it became, the closer I was to Azkaban. And finally, finally, a dim grey shape appeared vaguely out of the mist and the rain. I dived for a last time, and stood on solid ground soon after.

Prying my hands from the handle of the Firebolt where they had all but frozen, I performed a Warming Charm on my clothes and sighed in relief when the warmth spread through me. One of the guards stared at me, baffled, as I entered the watchtower.

"Horrible weather for a trip here, sir. Erratic as the Knight Bus. Three hours ago, we had the fairest sunshine."

I shrugged.

"Was necessary."

He nodded and became business-like.

"Name and purpose?"

"Harry Potter, Auror, and I need to inspect Lucius Malfoy's death."

This part all hinged on him not knowing that I was already suspended. But considering how remote Azkaban was, I was reasonably certain he didn't, and he swallowed that readily enough.

"This way, sir."

I left my Firebolt in the tower and followed him across the island over to the prison. We stumbled, rather than walking, with our heads down and rain-repelling charms applied all over; and when we reached the large grey stone portal of the prison, I was soaked regardless. We passed the small room where Walt wasn't on duty today and a different wizard looked bored, while I dried myself, and walked down the stairs into the subterranean reaches of Azkaban, to the familiar security door, which the guard opened.

The cell looked just like it had a few days ago, the bed, the table with tablecloth, the chair; but of course Lucius wasn't there. They'd gotten him out this morning. I stood in front of the iron bars and took it all in. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in even the slightest way.

"Could you open the door?" I asked the guard.

"Of course."

He fiddled with a key that was small and golden. The door clicked open, I stepped inside, and for a second, I caught a smell that reminded me of _something_. It was gone before I could really identify it, the barest trace of a fragrance, warm and resiny, and then the cell smelled like always – a hint of salt from the sea, otherwise cold and a little stale.

But it triggered a memory. And what had the guard –

I spun back around, staring at him. A key?

And suddenly, things started to fall into place.

* * *

___Heh. If you're really sharp, it might be possible to start unravelling the threads now :) I've read a couple of comments that noticed some of the clues in the story already. I'll look forward to seeing if anyone can get the entire picture before the end._

_**Review!**_


	17. Chapter 17

–––**CHAPTER 17–––**

**I** QUESTIONED the guard who was waiting patiently for me while I examined the room, asking him about the prison layout and schedules of the guards, and eventually, he led me to an empty room at the top of the watchtower looking across the prison. It only had a simple wooden chair, but that was enough. I had a view that encompassed the entirety of Azkaban; the chunk of rock that was the prison, surrounded by the windy, grey cliffs, and I only heard the relentless sea and the hoarsely cawing seagulls circling around the tower, finally having time and space to think.

It went from there.

I visited Walt an hour later, who had been cleaning a corridor down from Lucius' cell last night; and spoke with him. It took a little coaxing, but in the end, he turned out to be most helpful. Then I started my trip back to the mainland, which went by without a hitch, and apparated home.

The small, unimportant gesture of the guard unlocking the cell had triggered a cascade of thoughts and ideas. It was one of these odd moments – you looked back and wondered why suddenly things added up when nothing really had changed. Nothing was new, but everything looked different. The same facts gave a new picture, just because you looked at them from a different angle, and what appeared to be a confusing mess from one side looked like a perfect picture from the opposite one.

All it had taken was one little trigger, one different assumption, and like a knot that held in place a complicated tangle, the entire web had begun to unravel once the hitch was removed. I was still missing a few details, but many things made sense now.

Fitting the last bits in, however, was for later. The most important thing right now was that I was short one key.

o ] [ o

When I returned to Grimmauld Place, I went straight to the table in the living room, onto which I'd thrown all the paperwork I'd taken home. Robards' file was lying there the way I'd left it, and I flipped open the folder. Right on top was the picture they'd taken of Astoria, lying on the bed, on top of the covers, in her thin pink gown, with nothing around her neck.

Just as I had suspected. I stared at the proof in front of my eyes, knowing that this was exactly what I'd searched for and couldn't pinpoint when I wondered what was missing on Astoria this morning. Excitement gripped me as I realised I now knew exactly what I was chasing. The tiny, golden key, typical for a Gringotts vault. She had worn it, whenever I had seen her this past week, she had worn it even in bed, and she had worn it when I saw her last, during her argument with Daphne.

In death, she didn't. And that meant –

"Hello? Mr. Potter?"

I was jolted out of my thoughts by a voice calling my name. It came from behind me. I spun around, my eyes seeking the fireplace. Tom the barkeep's head was in the flames. I hurried over.

"Tom! Good to see you. What's the matter? Did you remember something else?"

I knelt down in front of the old fireplace expectantly, even as I saw his head moving up and down in the fire slowly.

"Just so, Mr. Potter. You remember when I told you that something was different? With the apparition sound?"

I nodded, regarding him intently. The excitement I felt rose to new heights. I could feel this would be one of the final missing pieces.

"Go on."

He nodded as well, his old, lined face thoughtful.

"Well, I think I know what threw me off. It wasn't one, but two people apparating. Only at almost the same time. I realised – I heard it again, by chance, when two of my guests left; just now."

And there it was. The penultimate chunk of the puzzle clicked into place. One of the people to apparate away had been Geiger. The other _had_ to have been Astoria. It meant she had come into the room, and left the room again. It meant she had been still alive after her meeting with Geiger. It meant she hadn't died in the room at all.

That was the crucial point. Astoria had been there _twice_ – had been moved back inside, from wherever she had been, no longer breathing, already dead; just the pale, still body I'd find later. It solved the problem of how none of the people in the room really looked like the murderer, and created a new one, because just like the Healer had said when they carried her off, it was impossible to transport _only_ a dead body. So how had she gotten there, without leaving a trace? There was a reason I had originally discarded the idea. Nevertheless, it was the only thing that made sense. I saw that clearly now.

And maybe … It _was_ possible that she was killed somewhere, and Geiger brought her back. I considered that. Maybe Geiger had a hand in killing her, after all. I'd need to _ask_ him.

But I didn't have _time_. My eyes jumped to the fireplace clock, which was on top of the dark, snake-adorned mantelpiece, and was just creeping towards twenty minutes past three. Gringotts closed at five to five, and didn't open again before Monday. If I wanted to achieve anything useful, I needed to run.

I smiled hastily at the old barkeep and thanked him.

"You have been immensely helpful, Tom."

He offered me a shrewd smile.

"Glad to be of service, Mr. Potter. And if you have a story to tell sometime, I'll always have a butterbeer ready for you."

He winked at me and his head vanished from the flames, which returned to their normal colour. I jumped up. It had become a race. The key was the prize. Astoria didn't have it. However, I was certain her murderer didn't have it either.

And that meant someone else had taken it, and there was only one person that had the opportunity. Someone who on top of that might know more about Astoria's death than he'd admitted.

Geiger was in for a rough afternoon.

o ] [ o

"Somewhere in Dartmoor" was of course no location at all. The Floo Network Index listed the Silver Dart Inn in Buckfastleigh on the eastern edge of Dartmoor as the next public Floo, so I started my search there.

I stepped out of the green flames, glancing around. I had ended up in a cosy-looking pub, which was sparsely filled, five or six people only. Lunchtime was long over, the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the corner said it was half past three. None of the patrons nursing a beer or whatever else looked up as the green flames behind me died down with a whoosh.

I stepped away from the fireplace, noticing a signed photograph above the mantelpiece. Quidditch players in grey and white circles around the pitch – the Falmouth Falcons. Someone was a fan. Below, the fire now crackled happily, spreading a comfortable warmth on the dreary day. Outside, the rain drummed against the windows and on the roof, making plinging noises, and the lights in the room were on – electrical lights.

Clearly, this was a regular pub, frequented by Muggles. I guessed there was a weak Notice-Me-Not Charm on the fireplace. It was at the very end of the spacious room, which was decked in dark wooden furniture and panels, with strong beams that carried the ceiling.

On the other end, there was a bar. Spotlights in its lowered ceiling glinted in the glasses and bottles, and showed a middle-aged man who was cleaning mugs in soapy water. In a separate glass cabinet behind him were a few more trophies – a pennant with a stag that said _Buckfastleigh Rangers F.C._, peaceably next to another one that sported a black falcon's head and suspiciously looked like belonging to the mantelpiece collection. A few cards showed players and autographs.

I slowly made my way to the bar, receiving a few nods from the other men. The bartender looked up as I approached.

"May I help you, sir?"

He had furrowed face, dark hair that was already greying towards the temples, and open, honest blue eyes.

"Harry Potter, Auror."

He showed no sign of recognition.

"You're a Muggle?" I asked, surprised.

"Jeffrey Cunningham," he said, and placed the mug down, offering me his hand after wiping it on a towel. "Call me Jeff."

He had a firm handshake. "My sister is a witch. I know most of your world, though. Auror – you're like an officer then, right?"

I nodded.

"Well, what can I do for you?"

"Been looking for a man named Geiger. He's supposed to live up in Dartmoor."

I looked out of the diamond-paned windows. I couldn't even see this side of the road. Another gust of wind lashed sheets of rain against the glass. I grimaced. That would be no fun, in Dartmoor.

"Horrible weather for August," grumbled Jeff, following my look. "Anyway, Muggle or wizard?"

"Wizard, about fifty, unkempt grey hair, most outstanding feature a missing finger on the left hand," I said, and he shook his head at once.

"No, sorry. Never heard of him. I know a few wizards and witches live in the moors, and of course there is Nott Manor in Lydford on the other side, but none of them sound like the person you're looking for."

I frowned.

"Mind you, that means nothing," he added. "I'd never claim to know every wizard in the area. My sister might know more, but she's currently out catching pixies."

"They like the bad weather and come out of hiding," he explained as he saw my incredulous look.

"I don't – well, nevermind that now." What the bloody hell would one use pixies for? "When does she get back?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Waiting for her will be useless, if that is what you're asking. She usually spends the night out in the moor, when she's there, so she won't be back before sometime tomorrow. If you want to talk to her, your best bet is returning tomorrow."

I turned away from him and cursed. The grandfather clock in the corner steadily ticked down the seconds. I did not have the time to wait, never mind one whole day. Gringotts closed at five to five, and didn't open again before Monday.

"I'm really in a hurry. I need to speak to Geiger this afternoon. Isn't there anyplace else that might know him?"

Jeff looked at me thoughtfully.

"If he really lives on the moor, you could try Wistman's Inn, just outside of Two Bridges. People from all over the moor meet there. It's roughly in the centre. Old Bart's the owner. He knows just about anyone – he's lived there his whole life."

I looked at him sceptically.

"He a wizard? I can't imagine many wizards hanging out in a Muggle inn, to be honest."

Jeff darted me a sidelong glance.

"You will find, Mr. Potter, that so many odd folks live up there that the difference between magical and normal people is far less than what you're used to."

"Right," I said, coming to a decision. "It can't hurt. I'll take a quick look, and – what?"

I stopped as Jeff looked at me scrutinisingly.

"Have you ever been in the moor, Mr. Potter?"

"Can't say that I have," I grumbled. "Don't know why I'd want to. Sounds like a horrible and far too wet place."

"Right." Now he sounded amused, and I was getting annoyed. "And then you decided you'd just go in, have a quick look and go back out?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Potter. It's an _upland_ moor. Do you see the weather?"

He pointed to the window. It was still raining, and the wind made howling noises. It almost sounded like a meowing cat.

"Rain," I said. "Wind. Not a problem. Wizard, and all that."

Now Jeff rolled his eyes. I had the distinct feeling that he was getting exasperated.

"Yes, it's raining _here_. Buckfastleigh, on the fringe of Dartmoor, in the valley of the Dart River. Altitude something like a hundred and fifty feet. Dartmoor proper is almost a thousand feet higher, many places even more."

I stared at him. He sighed.

"It means that the _low_ clouds bringing rain _here_ are the thickest fog _there_. You won't be able to see for more than a dozen feet ahead. You're walking inside the clouds. Do you have a spell that lets you see through the Dartmoor mists? Because if you don't, Mr. Potter, I don't see how you will find anything up there, especially if you don't even know what exactly you're looking for."

I cursed violently. Of course there was no spell – I'd already experienced that earlier on my trip to Azkaban. I had the urge to destroy something. Why the bloody hell was everything and everyone against me?

Jeff shrugged.

"I know you can apparate wherever you like, and as long as you don't lose your wand, even the mires won't be a problem, although the Kelpies might be, but finding anything right now up there is impossible. You're out of luck, Mr. Potter. Come back next week when the cold front has passed, and I promise you the fairest weather."

"I don't have time! Is this a bloody conspiracy or something?"

I stared angrily at the rain, falling down from the grey sky, and gurgling happily in the gutters. I had the distinct feeling that it was laughing about me. Well, there was nothing for it. I'd have to try it – Geiger was the key to this damn puzzle and I cursed Astoria for her silliness.

Jeff looked at me and shook his head. "You're going anyway. I know that look." He scratched his chin. "Well. Let me at least make you this suggestion, then. Cathy – my daughter – is driving to Princetown shortly – wait, that is, you do know Muggle cars?"

"Not a problem," I told him. I was already interested. "Go on."

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind driving up to Wistman's on the way and showing you the inn, at least."

"I'll take it," I said. "Anything that doesn't get me wet is godsend."

He nodded.

"Not a problem. Only one thing," he added suddenly, his voice sharp. "Cathy doesn't know about magic. I'd like to keep it that way."

It wasn't a suggestion. I shrugged.

"Sure. I grew up with Muggles. She won't notice."

Jeff relaxed.

"Alright." He walked around the bar and towards a door in the back, holding it open for me to follow him. And so I sat in a tiny, green Mini a few minutes later and drove out of the town.

Cathy turned out to be a twenty-something year old, plain, but cute in a girl-next-door-way. Her hair was brown and had been cropped short in a little bob, and she looked at me curiously every other minute, but had said nothing, other than replying that sure, it wasn't a problem to drive me when we got in the car.

The rain drummed on the roof, and the wiper fought bravely against the sheet of water covering the windscreen, but even so, she had to drive slowly, because the sight was miserable.

She indicated, and then turned right into a narrow lane that wasn't really wider than her car, and lined by hedges on both side, with a few last houses sprawled out in the rain behind them, and then we had left the town.

The road continued to wind its way through the hedges, and sometimes they were even narrower than the car was wide, and seemed to clutch at us, as if to try and prevent us from going any further. "Further" first of all turned out to be a forest, into which the road led. The canopy was green and sodden, and suddenly, the incline increased noticeably and we drove uphill.

She glanced at me again, and finally seemed to have gathered her courage.

"Why do you want into the moor so badly?"

"Police," I told her. "Need to find a man who's hiding there."

She nodded, and said nothing else. Apparently, she had a healthy dose of respect for the law. We drove on, and suddenly, the forest stopped, and the mist was there.

I blinked.

"Whoa."

I couldn't see a damn thing. The black band of the road vanished a few yards ahead in the uniform greyish white that was all around us.

"Is it always this abrupt and thick?"

"It's the forest," Cathy said. She seemed to be overcoming her initial shyness. "It keeps the fog out, mostly, but when we entered, we were below the clouds, and now we're inside. And yes, this is not really uncommon."

She drove carefully, but she seemed to know her way. And suddenly, I was glad that I had her. I really, really had no desire to stumble through this alone. Dark shadows appeared and disappeared by the wayside, strange, too-large things I couldn't begin to guess the origin of, but she laughed and told me things like 'we're crossing the Dart, now', or 'if the mist wasn't here you could see Aish Tor on the left and Leigh Tor on the right', and I decided to believe her.

Occasionally, a few houses appeared abruptly along the wayside, out of the fog; and still I thought we drove uphill, and if anything, the fog became thicker. Nothing, nothing at all to see but the dark grey asphalt of the road a few feet ahead of us, and a little bit of brown grass on either side. That was all I saw of Dartmoor.

"Are we already in the moorlands?" I asked.

She looked at me surprised.

"Oh yes. Well, at least what I think of them as – there's nothing but hills of cotton grass on both sides of the road. Nothing grows here, apart from that. We're already a thousand feet high. This is as much Dartmoor as it ever gets, I guess."

She turned left at a junction and told me: "We're at Two Bridges, now."

I saw nothing.

"It's really not a village – more like a very scattered hamlet. A few houses, quite a bit apart. Where did you want to go?"

"Wistman's Inn."

She wrinkled her nose.

"Horrible place."

She indicated again. I had no clue why she bothered. It wasn't as if anyone could actually see us in this damn fog. She turned right.

"We'll need to drive up the road to Postbridge."

We drove on, and after perhaps five minutes, passed a small building that appeared out of the fog on our left.

The car clock said it was fifteen-fifty two.

The inn was roofed with grey granite shingles, a low stone building, cowering on the flank of a hill that seemed to rise steeply behind the house. It looked like scared animal, crouching low in the fog; and very much deserted.

I stared at it. She stared at me.

I shook my head, and opened the door, climbing out of the car.

"Well, good luck," she said doubtfully.

"Thanks for the lift," I said.

"Anytime." She smiled at me, and pulled the door shut, backing across the road, then veering left; driving back into the direction we had came from. I watched the Mini vanishing in the white, and eventually, the sound of the engine died as well, drowning in the mist.

I was alone.

All around me was whiteness, and silence. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The building was on my side, miserable and lonely.

I turned around and entered the pub.

* * *

_I had lots of fun reading your ideas. Thanks to everyone who left a review!_


	18. Chapter 18

–––**CHAPTER 18–––**

**T**HE NARROW wooden door was open, and beyond the threshold was more or less darkness. A mixture of food, beer and smoke drifted out and into my nose. I made out a few benches, tables, and a fireplace, which was cold. I cautiously stepped inside.

A wolf jumped at me from the darkness, amber eyes glinting in the dark, baring its fangs, snarling. I stumbling backwards, reflexively raising my arms to fend it off with my bare hands, before I realised it was only the stuffed head of a hunting trophy, mounted on the wall directly to the left of the door. It was positioned in such a way that the beam of light falling inside whenever someone opened the door made it look almost alive.

I shook my head and walked across the room to the small bar, knocking on the counter. Behind me, the door closed, and shut out almost all the light. I couldn't see a soul.

"Anyone here?"

"Wha' d'yeh want?"

I spun around at the voice in my back. A man had appeared from seemingly nowhere. He stared at me like I was some sort of unwanted bug. Well, wasn't that a pleasant welcome.

He was humpbacked, carrying a candle lantern, which he lifted higher, allowing me to make out his face. It was wrinkled, surrounded by straggly, unkempt grey hair, and held two small, dark eyes, that stared at me with a forbidding expression.

I smiled at him.

"You Bart, the owner?"

"If I am?"

And he had a worse Devonshire accent than even Hagrid had had.

"Looking for a man named Geiger. Grey hair, missing a finger on his left hand. Know him?"

The man squinted at me.

"No."

I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for this game.

"I don't believe you."

"An' I tell yeh, we don' like strangers much, here."

Time to cut things short. My wand was in my hand with only the barest of movements, and pointed at him.

"You know what this is and what it can do, I presume?"

There was a flash of anger in his eyes and he took a threatening step towards me.

"Put tha' wan' away, wizzer. I don' have wands pulled in meh Inn, yeh hear me?"

"Tell me where he lives," I said.

An ugly look settled on his face.

"Haven' seen 'im in ages! An' now leave!"

I lifted my wand higher, and with a short flick, fired a stunner past his right ear. Somewhere in the dark ahead, behind the bar counter, glasses crashed to the ground.

I stared at him.

"_Where._"

"The o'er sid'er Wistman's Wood," he spat, looking furious. He'd taken a cautious step backwards though.

"Thanks," I said pleasantly. "Now, how do I get there in this bloody fog?"

"Yeh wanna go outta there _now_?"

A sudden grin spread over his face and the hostility vanished as though it had never been there. Instead, there now was a sly look in his eyes.

"Shoul'da have said tha' righ' away."

He sounded way too happy. I eyed him warily. He was all but jumping for joy.

"'S real easy. Yeh simply start jus' behind the house, and walk straight north. Eventually, the wood turns up on yer lef'. 'S only three hundred feet wide. Can' miss the house. Have fun!"

He turned around and walked away to the back of the room where he had apparently come from, wheezing out chuckles all the way. "Take care that'ta no' ge' fetched by ter Whis' Houn's," he called over his shoulder, before he left the taproom, slamming a door shut behind him, still cackling.

Obviously, he didn't think I was going to turn up ever again.

I stared at the closed door in the darkness, wondering if he had given me the right directions. Then I turned around, marched out of the door and around the house, climbed over a narrow stone wall, and started to walk.

o ] [ o

I used my wand to point me north.

The grass was wet under my boots, often interspersed with granite detritus. Here and there grew heather, the springy tufts brown and scrawny. I couldn't see more than one step ahead, the world was milky-white and looked the same in every direction. The only sounds I could hear were my breathing and my boots on the soggy ground, and even those were strangely muffled. It was like walking through cotton.

Dark outlines appeared in front of me, overly large and threatening, and then it was only a gorse bush or a rock, after all. I was steadily walking uphill, always following the direction my wand pointed me, for what seemed far too long, and I started wondering if I had missed the wood. Or perhaps the pleasant landlord had sent me into the middle of nowhere.

I stopped and turned around, looking back at the way I'd come from, seeing nothing but whiteness. He hadn't _looked_ like he had been lying – and anyway, he was the type to spill gladly with a little encouragement, like my spell next to his ear. But then again …

I took another step and someone tore at my cloak, clutching it firmly.

My breath hitched in my throat. I spun around and felt a grip on my neck; someone was clawing at me, grabbing my head with bony fingers, coming closer and closer. Dark shadows moved in the milky-whiteness of the fog, surrounding me, trapping me; there were countless arms, hundreds –

"Who's there?" I shouted, but no one answered. Earth exploded into my face as I fired a Reductor curse. My heart raced, and there was no reaction to my curse, I tried severing charms, but there were too many, too many, choking me –

A barely perceptible breeze drifted past and lifted the fog slightly.

I lowered the wand uttered a shaky laugh. Trees. Stunted oaks, grotesquely twisted, growing rampantly every which way; and my cloak had become tangled up good in one of the many branches. I'd nearly strangled myself. I tore it free, exhaling a long breath. This bloody fog really did a number on your nerves. I hadn't realised how tense I'd been until just now, when I almost lost it.

Only lucky that no one had been around to see it.

My feelings of annoyance and embarrassment became secondary, though, when I realised that this was what I'd been looking for. I had reached the wood.

o ] [ o

I bent away two branches and slipped past the oaks, entering the forest.

At once, I was in a different world. The air was still and soft, smelling spicy, like wet earth and sump. Whispers echoed through the trees, and I thought I spotted movement from the corner of my eyes, but whenever I looked, nothing was there. It was an eerie forest, thick, unwilling to allow passage; with knotted branches and roots everywhere, the trunks twisting and turning as though dancing a bizarre tree-dance and then frozen in mid-movement for eternity.

The best word I could come up with to describe the forest was enchanted. Everything was overgrown by moss and lichens, drifting down from branches like waving flags, brushing my hair, getting tangled in it like soft green veils. Large boulders, looking like primeval beasts with furs of moss, blocked my path, aiding the sharp branches that reached for me in trying to stop me from advancing; and beyond all, countless presences of something that was out there, watching me, waiting.

Walking through it all was a chore, and more than once I sank almost hip-deep into a boggy patch, laboriously pulling myself back out with a hastily conjured rope. By now there wasn't a dry stitch of clothing on my body.

I was cutting away twigs that blocked my way and felt like a dozen new ones grew right after I had passed, I looked at a stone, turned away, looked again and could have sworn it looked different than the first time. Not more than three hundred feet wide, Bart had said – I had already passed more than three times that, and I wasn't walking in circles, because I still followed my wand. There had to be a magical part of the forest. Perhaps it was bigger inside than outside. I was tiring. I needed a break.

I felt like sitting down in the soft mossy lap of the old oak, leaning my back against the strong trunk, and rest … just rest …

I smiled. That sounded like a good –

"Bloody hell!"

I cleared my mind, staring angrily at the softly swaying tree. A Wishtree. I really wasn't spared anything today. I eyed the luring plant distrustfully, and was more than well-advised to do that, because suddenly, there was a shrill laughter right above my head.

I jumped away and ducked down. Where I had been standing moments before, a swarm of pixies descended down, ready to do all kinds of mischief with the person sleeping under the tree.

My wand was out, and by now I was fed up more than enough. A little target practice was just what I needed. My wand moved in a blur, shooting stunners all around, hitting the blue pests that screamed shrilly, as one after the next of their flock fell to the ground.

I was getting a good workout, ducking and dodging attacks and after a few minutes, every pixie was silent and still.

At the very least, my mood had improved slightly, and anyway, the forest felt decidedly more magical here than it had before. I walked on, and just then, a dark shadow shimmered through the trees from ahead.

It was a ramshackle hut that was hidden behind a grove of dark trees, their trunks black, and it looked so warped that it seemed inevitable that it would topple over any moment now. Where cracks between the black wooden boards would have been, the problem was apparently solved with magic, with made it look like an old tattered robe with more patched parts than whole ones.

The roof was the same dreary grey granite that I found everywhere, and made the hut look oppressive and heavy. It also had a chimney, but it was cold and no smoke billowed into the air.

With a flick of my wand, the door opened, revealing a single room. The lone window was dim, almost blind with grime and only allowed sparse rays of light inside. My wand provided additional light, and the beam travelled over a bed on one side, a table, a chair in the middle, all made of simple rough wood; and finally a hearth on the other side. The walls were lined with shelves, displaying an odd collection of books, trinkets and knick-knacks; and I spotted a piece of parchment on the table with the St. Mungo's seal, and knew I had found Geiger's home.

Apart from that, though, the room was empty.

I went through Geiger's meagre possessions, but the key wasn't there. I had tried summoning it, but nothing had moved. He had to have hidden it. I didn't feel like taking apart the hut, so I sat down on the chair, and resigned myself to waiting.

o ] [ o

The time passed, and I was getting restless. A small clock on the wall ticked the minutes away, and I watched the hand creeping by the half past four mark, steadily getting closer and closer to Gringotts' closing time. I was second guessing my decision to wait for him, feeling like a cat on hot bricks. Where the hell was Geiger?

I jumped up, unable to sit still any longer, walking through the dingy room, passing the time with examining Geiger's things again. The most valuable one I spotted clearly was a Pensieve. I wondered from whom he'd gotten it. Probably stolen. He seemed like the type Mundungus Fletcher would have hung out with. I stood at the window and stared out, waiting for him to come. Inside, it was now almost quarter to five. Outside, it had started to rain again.

Suddenly, there was a crashing noise and a curse. My wand was in my hand in a flash, pointed at the door. The handle moved – the door opened, hiding me behind it, and a man ducked inside – Geiger. I recognised his form at once.

He took a few steps into the room, and then I banished the door closed with a bang.

He jumped and spun around.

"You!" he howled, charging at me like a rampant Hippogriff, until I stopped him with a tripping jinx. He pulled his wand, but I was ready for that. Before he'd even gotten of the first syllable of a spell, the wand soared through the air and ended up in my left hand.

"I told you I'd be back," I said, my wand trained at him on the ground. "Now, to make this quick. I don't have much time, and I need Astoria's key." I glanced at the clock. Fourteen minutes to five. "You have thirty seconds to show me where you've hidden it."

Geiger didn't even answer. He jumped up again, running towards me, swinging his fists like a madman and shouting incoherently. I jumped aside, avoiding his hands, blasting him backwards across the room. He crashed into a shelf, breaking it, crying out in pain. Odds and ends hailed down on him lying on the ground in a crumpled heap.

I had no time for this.

I flicked my wand, yanking him back up, slamming him against the wall.

"Where is the key?" I realised I was shouting and sending bludgeoning curses at him simultaneously. "Where did you hide it?"

He shook his head. I kept up my fire, he wouldn't speak; my Reductor curse probably broke his foot, then he was bleeding and I _didn't have time_.

"Where?!"

Geiger remained silent. He only sobbed, shaking his head.

I wasn't getting anywhere.

I bit my lip. We were alone, weren't we?

_You rejected the usual rules, because you only respect your own._

Was it Daphne's voice? Was it my voice?

You _do what you want._

I lowered my wand and he crumpled again on the ground, curled up into a ball. The clock on the wall was ticking down my time as a free man.

No time. _No time._

No rules – except my own?

My wand rose; slowly, this time.

"Imperio."

I only whispered the word. Volume wasn't important for a spell to work correctly. The connection forged by the Unforgivable Curse rushed through me. _One account of murder swapped for one account of use of an Unforgivable Curse … but he would never tell, never know …_

Geiger wasn't strong. He'd never been. I dominated his mind, due to my superior skill, my superior magic, felt the fine thread that linked us now, it was mine to command, mine to destroy, as easy as breathing, a movement of my fingertips enough to get him to do whatever I desired …

"Hand me the key."

Geiger never rose. His hand just moved mechanically inside his right coat pocket and pulled something out, something gold and glinting … I stared at the key in his hand, not elaborately hidden at all, never having _been_ hidden, and Geiger stared at me, with a blank expression, a mere puppet of my will.

I was running out of time.

I turned away and walked out of the door. I had more questions. They would have to wait.

"I'll deal with you later, Geiger."

And he said nothing, and just remained there, sitting, while I was apparating away.

It was ten minutes to five.

o ] [ o

Gringotts closed at five minutes to five, so I had five minutes to spare. I arrived at Diagon Alley, sprinting down the road, past _Flourish & Blotts_, past the entrance to Knockturn Alley, until finally, the tall white building appeared ahead. The rain that was falling I'd started to ignore long ago.

I skidded to a halt in front of the broad marble steps that lead up to the doors of Gringotts – the doors that currently were closing. I cursed and jumped up the stairs, crossing the last three yards that were between me and the answers.

Next to the doors still stood one of the uniformed goblins. He eyed me warily, and I could only imagine how I looked – wet from the rain and dirty from the swamps, out of breath and dishevelled.

"Closing," the goblin finally said. "Come Monday."

"No!" I panted. Monday was too late. Monday I'd be back in the cell. I repressed the urge to blast the doors open using the goblin as a projectile. I wasn't about to be jailed because of a damn creature half my size. "I need to see – Just one vault, please – Key ready, and all."

I lifted the small golden key, walking towards the doors that still remained ajar, and for a terrible second, I thought the goblin was going to throw me back out. Then he said: "Wait."

He vanished inside. Another, final, client exited the building and looked at me curiously. Then two goblins returned, and one said: "Come, and make it quick."

I was unable to tell if one was the one that had left, since they looked all the same to me. I entered the bank, finding the lights illuming the marble splendour already out, and the stations of the tellers deserted. The goblin that had spoken led me through the hall to one of the doors leading to the labyrinthian tunnels below and hopped into a cart that was already waiting.

"Key?"

I handed the key to the goblin, and he eyed it from both sides. I hadn't known they were different.

"Yes, that seems to be alright."

I climbed into the cart as well, when the goblin gave me a toothy grin.

"Mr. Potter, I presume. We've been expecting you."

"You've been expecting me?"

"Yes, Miss Greengrass was most specific. It's vault 126."

He pushed the lever and we rattled down, surprisingly deep for a number that wasn't all that high. Then again, nothing said that the numbers indicated any sort of order.

We came to a halt in the middle of nowhere, as usual, next to a door which the goblin unlocked. The vault was small, barely high enough for me to stand inside, and contained only one item. On the rocky floor was a small brown package I knew very well. I stared at it for a second, then deciding on a course of action. First, I needed a copy.

I unwrapped the parcel, revealing a few loose documents as well as a small green diary.

"_Gemino_," I said, pointing my wand at it with a slight jab. The parcel shimmered, then duplicated. Now I had two.

I left the original in the vault and took the copy out with me. "Two things," I said to the goblin. "I need a spare key for this vault, and a quick trip to Vault 711."

The goblin said nothing and his fist closed around the key. When it opened again, my eyes looked at two golden keys. He handed me both, locked the vault, and said: "Get on."

I got back into the cart, and we drove further down. Vault 711 was Sirius' old vault, one of those without a key that needed a goblin to open them, and I hadn't had any use for it since I moved all the money and the few trinkets in it to my old vault for easier access. Now it would be pivotal. I had a plan.

o ] [ o

While we drove downwards, I conjured a scrap of parchment. It was a nice cream coloured one with an emerald border and looked exactly like I wanted it to. I used my wand to engrave a sentence in gold lettering, and when we had reached the vault, I placed it inside the empty space. Afterwards, we returned to the surface and the main hall, which looked quite eerie in the dark and without anyone but us inside, and the goblin left me at the outer doors, the one with the burnished bronze fronts.

Only one of the two goblins with their golden and scarlet livery was still around. He looked at me surlily.

"Done?"

I walked outside, then turned back around.

"Yes. Just one question, though: When do you open again, on Monday?"

"Seven-seven," said the goblin, and shut the door in my face.

o ] [ o

With my files, which I handled with all the care of Merlin's lost writings, since they were worth approximately that, I finally returned to Grimmauld Place, completely exhausted. I'd been arrested, had been flying out to Azkaban over the North Sea in a rainstorm, and hiked though a moor and unfriendly forest in fog thick as thick as pea soup. Talk about normal days, and it was only afternoon.

I kicked my grimy boots off, threw the wet robes into my bedroom, and jumped under a scalding hot shower. Afterwards I ate, and retreated to the living room, where a wonderful crackling fire burned. With a sigh, I dropped into an overstuffed chair. I wore my bathrobe, had a bottle of Firewhisky next to all my files on the table at my side, and started to read.

Time passed. The sky turned dark soon, the rain ran down the window pane, but I never really noticed. I read and read, and when the first rays of light of the dawning Sunday crept past the drawn curtains, I flicked off my light and stared off into space. So ruthless. So brilliant. So utterly heartless.

It was perfect. Very nearly. I almost admired it – would have, if it hadn't been me who was supposed to take the fall for it. I'd have never discovered it, if it hadn't been for one small, almost inconsequential mistake, and a healthy dose of luck.

That was all that stood between me and a lifetime in Azkaban. A key and a healthy dose of luck. The game was tight as hell.

I felt like I could sleep for days and pulled myself together. My work wasn't yet done, I reminded myself. The next hours would determine which way the chips fell.

There was much to do. I apparated back to Geiger's place, who wasn't there, thankfully. I waited till he came, and cleared up a few last questions and the small matter with the curse I'd used. I visited Claire who was already up and dashing through the office of the Daily Prophet, chatting with me happily, and finally I had a drink in the Leaky Cauldron, and then rode the tube home.

Back at Grimmauld Place, I called Daphne and invited her for nine p.m., prepared the room for her arrival, wrote a short to-do list for the next day and finally, finally caught some much needed sleep.

It was Sunday, ten o'clock in the morning, and I was done.

* * *

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	19. Chapter 19

–––**CHAPTER 19–––**

**D**APHNE arrived at nine on the dot. She wore scarlet.

I took her cloak – the weather was still too cool for August – and it revealed a plain red dress, floor-length. Her nails were clear, not painted, and she wore no makeup besides lipstick, which was the same scarlet red as the dress. It might have been overkill, on other women. She was made for that red.

It wasn't the fairy tale impression of our first meeting, nor the extravagant opulence and splendour of the ball night. It was almost ascetic, the hair tightly pulled back into a simple ponytail, leaving her face open, with nothing to detract from her striking, almost severe features. It was her in her raw form, and it fitted her better than any of the other appearances had. She was beautiful.

"You look perfect tonight."

She took the compliment with her fine, enigmatic smile.

"You would think that."

The golden light of the gas lamp caught her half-profile, shining in her glossy blond hair; putting a hint of colour onto her pale face, and making her lips shimmer like candy apples. She kissed my cheek.

"Thanks for the invitation, Harry."

I led her to the dining room, where Kreacher had prepared a three-course meal. We sat facing each other, eating and talking about inconsequential things, the Ministry, the upcoming winged horse races in the Highlands, stuff like that. Daphne was a lively conversationalist, and occasionally there were even glimpses of her subtle humour, but she appeared unusually distracted. More than once, I saw her glancing throughout the room, as if she wasn't quite there with her thoughts.

It was only after the dessert, when we went into the living room, that she seemed to get a grip on herself. I'd lit a fire in the fireplace, but adjusted the temperature with a charm. Here, her restlessness finally seemed to disappear. We sat on the couch in front of the fireplace, turned towards each other, and maybe there even was a small smile on her lips. The soft orange glow caressed her cheeks.

"So was there any special reason you invited me?"

I studied her face, which told me nothing.

"I found Astoria's murderer," I said.

"Oh?" Her eyebrow rose and she looked at me expectantly. "I am impressed. Who is it?"

"Yes, that's funny," I said. "You."

o ] [ o

Heavy silence as thick as the old overstuffed upholstery of the sofa hung in the room, stifling, like the air before a thunderstorm. The logs in the fireplace crackled and sprayed sparks as they shifted. It seemed too loud in the quiet. She rose and turned away from me, leaving me to stare at her back, as she buried her face in her hands.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered.

"_I didn't mean to!_"

The second time it was a despairing shout, and her shoulders started to shake. She whirled around, staring at me wildly, face ridden with anguish.

"I'm sorry! Oh, I'm so, so, sorry that all of this happened, and I'm so sorry I tried to frame you, but I was a mess and I didn't know what to do and then I heard they put you into a cell and that was _horrible_, and I had to get you out of there …"

She cut off and uttered a choked laugh.

"I'm rambling."

I looked at her and she stared at me with wide eyes, fearful and uncertain.

"But you believe me, don't you, Harry –? Oh, you do."

She flung herself at me and I caught her; one arm full of beautiful lie, from the beginning of those wonderful legs to the stormy grey eyes that saw so much more than others.

My hand moved over her back, caressing her skin, softly, reassuringly.

"Tell me how it happened," I whispered.

I felt her swallow, twisting slightly to sit next to me; leant against my side, in my embrace. Her voice was soft, hesitant.

"You heard us argue … you told me. We had an argument like sisters occasionally do, about the silliest things, like … well, never mind." I thought she might even have blushed softly. "There always was a certain rivalry between us – I imagine that is the case with every two sisters – but it got worse when our parents died. Losing them was hard on me, but for her, it was that much harder. She was only twelve when they died."

Daphne paused, gathering herself.

"Well, be that as it may, we argued about you. And so, as you and I just had separated at the Ministry, when I arrived back home, I was already in a bad mood. And then Asto – she … she was just so _infuriating_ –"

She buried her face in my side. Her voice was muffled, nearly inaudible.

"I – I pushed her away – not hard, I can't think how she – didn't mean to – I _didn't mean to_ –"

Her voice choked. She clung to my side and felt her shaking slightly, her fingers digging into my arm. Her grip was the one of a drowning man clutching a plank. And then it burst out of her, full of guilt and angry despair.

"It was an accident! Accidental magic – she just – just fell down. And didn't rise – she just laid there, so still and I – I always had violent outbursts, and I don't know what to do, and I'm _so_ glad that now you know …"

She lifted her head and stared at me, close enough for me to count the fine black lashes of her grey eyes, which were big and shimmered suspiciously.

"Will you help me, Harry?"

My hand brushed over her head. So beautiful.

"My lovely little liar. My cold, cruel, lovely little liar."

So beautiful a lie.

I kissed her gently, tasted the bittersweetness of her lips and realised then I did not care. That I hadn't, not for a while, that somewhere along the line, I lost direction, compass abrogated, spinning in circles, right and wrong the same direction, losing meaning, around her. She was the pole. My hand brushed through her hair, and I stared at the wall.

"You were fighting, you were angry, I saw you act on impulse, and maybe you did again. Or maybe you planned it, meticulously, coldly calculating, with all the brilliance of your mind – coming up with an ingenious way to fool the Prior Uti Charm, frame me, and get away with murder." I twisted my lips into a humourless smile. "And I can't seem to care."

Daphne stiffened at my side, pulling away slightly. She was silent for a while, and when she gazed at me again, it was thoughtful. Her face was blank again, expressionless, showing not a single emotion, motionless.

Her hand moved up my arm, and she sighed.

"Of course. _You_ would never accept any other explanation. You prefer the remorseless over the remorseful. The only thing _you_ believe in is in the bad of mankind. For you, everything is already clear."

There was a faraway look in her eyes. Then, her beautiful, candy-apple red lips showed the hint of a smile.

"And so, if that's the only way I can atone, that's what I shall be."

"You're wrong," I said curtly.

_And maybe, if I couldn't convince her, I could at least convince myself._

"Did you ever ask yourself, Harry, if there was a point in all this where the fear there _might_ have been a murder became the wish there _would_ have been one? Did you stop just once, for one short moment, and wonder if you only saw what you wanted to see?"

I snipped a piece of lint off my robes and stared at the wall harder.

"Who the hell knows what's true."

_Did it even matter anymore?_

She folded her legs.

"I could tell you."

_Did I even want to know?_

I scowled at her.

"Tell me what? Another story?"

She shrugged.

"Of course. It's all just a story, isn't it? That's the entire point. One is as good as the next. And so, we pick the one that appeals to us the most. That's how life works. Isn't it?"

It was funny in a way. You could assume that her cold, standoffish persona was her mask and that there was something else beneath – some last shred of human warmth, frail and almost lost, something I'd just glimpsed, here, as she clung to my side, breaking down, shaking like a leaf.

Or you could assume the very opposite: the short episode showing nothing but the final play of a brilliant actress, and the frosty, unfeeling woman, that was her. _That_ was her, for me, and goddamnit, that was the way I would remember her always; the cool grey eyes that pierced through me, the beautiful red lips that whispered promises and only ever told lies, the fine enigmatic smile, always and forever looking as if she knew what I thought, captivating and enchanting me.

The one woman that would've been perfect if she wasn't like _that_, and the one that showed me I'd never have thought she'd be so if she actually _wasn't_ like _that_ in the first place. I clenched my fists.

"So what now?"

I wondered what I would have done, had it not been me who was supposed to take the fall. Would I have relinquished struggling altogether, even with this last tiny bit that still refused to simply accept what she did – if only for purely selfish reasons?

She leant at my side again. I breathed her scent.

"Tell me how you came to the conclusion."

Her voice was quiet. I was silent.

"One murder too many," I said eventually. "That's always how it ends. There was a witness, when you visited Lucius. But at the start, it was a smell, really."

"A smell?"

I smiled, but there was no humour in it, only bitterness.

"Juniper. It was in Malfoy's cell, and I remembered I had smelled it before – I had in Tom's room, and falsely attributed it to some cleaning agent he used, and, most importantly, in your basement. A potion smelled like it. A tiny, all but inconsequential mistake, to link them all together – you should have cleared the air, or made certain a window was open."

Why did she have to be so … complicated?

_You mean, like you?_

"I think it was a poison. You poisoned them. The most treacherous way to kill."

She shrugged indifferently.

"I was always good with potions. It would have gotten the job done, neatly and without making a mess. What you are talking about is a very obscure poison – hard to brew, so it fell out of use. It's called Juniper's Death. If I thought no one would notice, I was right."

"I noticed."

A slow smile spread over her face.

"Yes, but _you_ are not _them_, are you?"

Her voice was soft, brushing over me like the sheerest velvet; and there was no difference in her tone, as I felt her wand at my neck and she said: "Now, Harry, where is it?"

I started to turn my head around carefully, and stopped when the tip of her wand prodded me.

"You would really kill me?"

"If I thought it would be actually useful, this very minute."

We could have been talking about the weather. There was no hesitation in her voice, no trace of being upset at the prospect. She'd simply do it. The only thing that kept me alive right now was my plan.

"Would you regret it?"

This time, there was a longer pause. Then she said, "Surprisingly, yes. Until I went to bed tonight, I would. I would mourn, just this one time. Whatever else I said, you _are_ different. That much is true."

"That's good, then. Because I have no idea what you are looking for."

She frowned slightly.

"Don't play stupid, it hardly becomes you."

Her free hand brushed over my forehead, tracing my scar, exploring it curiously, singling out that mark as the one part that made me myself.

"No one has ever come that close, but you had help. Where are the documents from Miles' place that the little beast stole?"

I smiled at her. We were nearing the end. Finally, it would be over. It was almost a relief.

"I really don't know what you're talking about."

She pouted at my answer. I had to use every ounce of self restraint to not kiss those candy-apple lips, but I managed.

"_Harry_. Must you really do it the hard way? I could think of so many other things we could do instead of playing this stupid game."

"Wasn't it you who wanted to play?"

I suddenly twisted, turning right, rolling sideways over the backrest of the couch, avoiding just barely the stunning spell that brushed over the tips of my hair and crashed into the wall, neatly destroying my bookshelf.

I scrambled to my feet, wand already in hand, and banished the furniture out of the way, clearing a space in the middle of the room.

"No, Daphne." I stared at her, the wand pointed in an unmistakeable way. "You won't get it like this. Our last encounter ended in a draw. It's time we had clear winner."

Her face hardened, and the stormy grey eyes were like steel. There was no trace of affection left, if there ever had been any.

"Very well. The hard way, then."

_There never was any other way, was there?_

A severing curse raced into my direction, without any warning at all. She barely moved her wrist and it was as nasty as can be. I dodged that spell, again, and my counter was directed at the wall instead. Around us flared a cage-like shield up, like the ones they had in a professional duelling arena. I'd worked on it this morning. This time, right here, right now, there would be a winner.

Her eyes widened slightly, more so as I fire at Flesh Flaying Curse into her direction. No holding back. No limits. No rules. _None – except our own …_ We needed each other alive. That was all.

It was a brutally fast and very silent duel. She tried to make up for her inability to use no instantly lethal spells with speed and sole reliance on nonverbal spells, and so the only noises were our footsteps, our breathing and the sound of spells impacting on the shield. I fended off a bone crushing hex, returned fire with a curse to collapse her lungs, ducked and rolled out of the way. She moved as well, in short, quick strides, like a fencer.

I fired a Blasting Curse at her, which she sidestepped. She twisted her wand, and suddenly, time seemed to slow down. There was a brilliant green beam of light racing towards me – a colour so distinctive there was only one spell in the world that could produce it.

I stood as if turned into stone, staring at her, at the light, frozen in time, my mind racing through the possibilities. She couldn't – she needed me alive – or …?

My eyes flickered to her face, which showed no movement. Blank, void of emotion, the usual state. I could have been fighting an Inferi. I had to decide – her wand already pointed at the only possible place I could dive –

And then time snapped back into reality with vengeance, and it was too late, I had decided; felt my heart beating fast, as the spell hit me at the chest – and did nothing. Just a simple coloured beam of light. There was a slight smile on her face now.

_A game, always a game …_

She wouldn't use instantly lethal spells.

I went into the offence, using the saved time from not defending at all for a counter attack. She got off another spell, aimed at my head, but it was caught by the flock of birds I had conjured. There was a bright flash, and I was suddenly showered in feathers, blood and bits of gore. _A bloody rupturing curse!_ And my head was no different than a few sodding birds – what the hell? She would – but then what – that green spell –

She was openly smiling now, but I had no time to consider her spells or tactics. I had her on the defence, she had to back away – a little bit more, and she would be in the corner. I almost had her, which was good, because I was getting a headache. Another Blasting Curse, and she was backed into the corner, nowhere left to go. I evaded her spell, had a free shot – I aimed, but it was getting harder. My hand was shaking. One spell went wide, hitting the shield. I tried to aim properly, and felt like it was a Herculean task. My hand wouldn't obey my mind anymore.

She made a wide, sweeping gesture with her wand, and suddenly, I found myself confined in darkness, and she was gone. I turned around, and there she was – far off to my left, illumed by singular spot of light. I looked at her as though through a long dark tunnel, moved towards her and suddenly crashed into an invisible wall. I touched it with my hands, moving my fingers over its surface, like a blind man – was it glass? Or air? Or –

_Reducto!_

It shattered, I moved on, but suddenly, she was there no longer – I spun around – now she was at my back.

What was going on? It was so hard to concentrate – maybe I was surrounded by mirrors. I felt worse by the second. None of this was real – or was it? I had to be some spell of her – there wasn't that much space in the living room … which room was I thinking about?

I fired Reductor Curses in every direction. Glass shattered, but nothing changed. There were more mirrors, more images of her. I started to run, my footsteps echoing on cold stone ground through the dark, felt the panic rushing through me like icy water, like a claw at my neck that gripped me and started to choke me. I ran, as fast as I could, heart beating frantically, but it was useless; I was stuck in a maze, invisible walls all around me, like a house of mirrors. A fleeting thought passed my mind, she had tricked me, perhaps with the spell, or putting something into my drink when I wasn't looking, but it was hard to focus on that. I was feeling dizzy and disorientated. All around me, there was only her, looking at me from endless dark corridors that at the same time couldn't ever be passed, I was trapped, lost. The world tumbled down, or maybe I did. My legs gave out under me, my hand unable to hold onto my wand. It slipped and rolled away. I was on my knees, beaten, alone.

The mirrors shattered in a shower of glass and then there she was, waiting; resplendent, like an angel, beautiful and cold like the dawn, and I didn't need to look up, couldn't have, in any case, but knew the fine satisfied smile, heard it in her voice as she looked down at me and softly said: "Stupefy."

And finally and rightfully, my infatuation – Daphne – was my downfall.

o ] [ o

I woke bound to a chair, with Daphne nowhere in sight.

Then I felt her hand on my shoulder.

"So many things I could think of to do with you tied to a chair," she murmured. Her breath tickled the small hairs on my neck.

"And I have to talk about business instead."

She sounded annoyed. The dizziness was gone; I felt calm, quite calm, and very peaceful. I had no care in the world. Then her voice was back.

"Now, Harry. How do I deactivate the shields?"

Oh, right, the shields. I opened my mouth, and before I could stop it, the answer tumbled out.

"Finite Incantatem."

There was a perplexed pause, and then she started to laugh quietly. I loved the sound. I struggled to turn my head, but couldn't. I wanted to see her –

"Really, Harry? _Finite Incantatem?_ You _are_ something else." Her hand ruffled my hair and she dispelled the shields.

"And then, where are Miles' papers?"

I tried to say nothing, but it was as if I had lost control of my mouth. I realised what was going on. _Veritaserum_.

"In Gringotts vault 126."

"And is that that all of it?"

"No. I have a copy of it here. On the table over to your right, it's all in the folder. That is all."

My voice was even, monotone. I watched myself as in third person, giving her every answer she desired, ready to give up all she ever wanted to know. I told her what evidence I had against her, giving away the advantage, I told her about Walt at Azkaban, knowing it was his death sentence. I tried fighting it and it was useless. I'd lost control.

She finally walked over to the table behind me, hm-hmming satisfied as she found everything as I'd described, pocketed the folder and returned.

"And the key to the vault?"

"In my pocket. The innermost one."

"Indeed?"

I could hear her amusement and hoped, knew, wanted what was coming. Her right hand rested on my shoulder, and her left weaved through my clothes.

"I can't help but wonder, Harry, if you put it there for a reason," she whispered. Her hand trailed down my chest, cool and smooth, brushing over my skin, in no hurry to find the pocket, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. My heart beat faster. And again, the soft, quiet laughter.

"Sneaky, I must admit. I approve."

Fingers finally dipped into the pocket and pulled out the small golden key. I felt her bending over my shoulder, and again her voice was directly in my ear.

"Thanks."

Her lips brushed over my cheek. I felt her mouth linger, for just a moment, and her left hand stroke over other cheek, and then she retreated, and for the first time, I saw her, as she moved in front of me.

She looked thoughtful.

"We really are done, but I wondered if you might appreciate to see how it really happened. You deserve as much, as you so admirably connected the pieces on your own. I said I would tell you."

"Yes," I said, and didn't even try to fight the potion. Daphne smiled, then closed her eyes, concentrating, putting the wand to her temple and pulling a fine silver thread from it, which sparkled and shimmered in the light of the fire in the chimney. She left it at her wand and made a complex gesture I never had seen before, and suddenly, with a small jab, it raced ahead, expanding into something that looked like a plate of quicksilver, spanning half the room, suspended in mid air.

She returned to my side. I stared at her charmwork. As much as she might lack in the field of Transfiguration, she was a genius at Charms. I'd never even heard of that spell before.

Daphne kneeled down beside me, an arm around my shoulders.

"Just watch."

The silver surface rippled, and suddenly I was reminded of Tom Riddle's diary – it turned bright and clear, with colours flickering on it, forming a picture, looking like a movie screen, on which we were watching what had to be Daphne's memory.

The room was her bedroom, the one I'd had been in when I arrived to pick her up for the Ministry.

The clock on the wall read quarter to midnight. _There hadn't been a clock in the room –_

Daphne sat at the dressing table, in one of the carved chairs, writing a letter. She had a beautiful script, each letter small piece of art, elegant, yet not too ornate to hinder reading. The dark ink gleamed wetly in the light of a solitary candle next to her, dipping large parts of the room into darkness.

She was still wearing the ivy dress from the Ministry function, as well as her jewellery. A strand of her pale blond hair had escaped the updo and framed her face, a loose coil, brushing her cheek as she tilted her head, looking at the letter, blowing the ink dry. The diamonds sparkled softly in the candlelight.

There was knock on the door. Daphne rose, folding the letter.

"Enter."

It was Astoria. She was dressed for bed already, wearing nothing but the soft pink negligée I found her in – yesterday – a lifetime ago. Her bare feet padded over the thick carpet.

"You asked for me, sister?"

Her voice sounded strangely breathless. I couldn't see her very well, she was standing outside of the immediate reach of the candle's shine.

Daphne smiled, and pointed to a tray with two glasses, which had suddenly appeared on the table.

"It's almost midnight."

Astoria's tongue darted out of her mouth, running over her lower lip, just the tip.

"Yes."

She sounded expectant, eager. Daphne handed her one glass.

"Cheers."

Glasses clinked, and Astoria took a big gulp, while Daphne only sipped at hers.

"You didn't bring him home."

Daphne placed down the glass deliberately.

"No, I did not."

Astoria glanced at her, tilting her head, shifting onto one leg, crossing her arms below her chest. The negligée tautened, in an unmistakeable shape, her bust straining against the thin silky fabric.

Daphne smiled.

"Naughty, Astoria."

She walked around her, wrapping her arms around her sister from behind.

"You know what happens to naughty girls, do you?"

Her lips moved over Astoria's neck who had closed her eyes, her mouth half-open. Daphne's hands travelled up her body, finally cupping her breasts. A shiver went through Astoria's body and she leant back, allowing her sister better access to her neck.

"Mmh."

Daphne's lips were near her ear. One hand dipped down, to the hem of her negligée.

"Midnight used to be our hour," Daphne murmured. Her hand crept along Astoria's right thigh, rumpling the silk inches higher.

"Do you still remember how you would sneak into my room?"

The hemline rose, barely shadowing the dark triangle between Astoria's legs. Fingers brushed over the inside of her thighs, and the legs parted willingly. The finger slipped inside, but stopped just short of the centre.

Daphne retreated her hand, and Astoria uttered a frustrated whimper. Her sister kissed her on the cheek.

"All in good time."

She stepped back, and with a wave of her wand, the green dress fell away, pooling at the floor around her feet and leaving her in a black and dark red bustier and matching panties.

She stepped out of the dress, advancing on Astoria again, pulling her towards her. Her fingers brushed over Astoria's cheek, tracing a curve down to her lips, which she kissed softly. Her hands moved lower, around her back, brushing aside her golden hair at her neck, starting to untie the string of the silky garment covering Astoria at a leisurely pace. But Astoria didn't want to wait anymore. She all but jumped Daphne, wrapping her legs around her, sending them tumbling down onto the large bed.

"So beautiful," Astoria murmured under Daphne's caress, her own fingers tracing the red patterns of the floral embroidement across Daphne's stomach, up to her chest. Daphne smiled, and her hands gave up all pretence and slipped under her sister's negligée, softly massaging her breasts.

"We both are, aren't we? The most beautiful girls in the world."

And so they were, a sight to behold; Astoria with a more compact frame and fuller breasts, perfectly formed, the culmination of a flawless, lovely, soft body, whereas her sister was leaner and beautiful in a remote way, a striking, imperious figure, with those endless legs she knew to show off so well.

The soft candlelight spilled over the two embracing sisters on the bed like a bucket of molten gold, creating nothing so much than a symphony of perfection, which shattered the moment Astoria uttered a cat-like hiss as Daphne's nails grazed over her nipples and she responded by shoving her hand into Daphne's panties. The outline of her fingers strained the fabric as they moved in small circles underneath it, eliciting a breathy moan from her sister.

She pulled Astoria down, on top of her, initiating a wild, lusty kiss, which Astoria returned greedily. Daphne's fingers started loosening the remains of the tie around her neck, pulling the negligée off, leaving her naked at last. Astoria returned the favour, nimbly unlacing Daphne's bustier at the back, stripping it off. She wrapped her legs around Daphne beneath her, pressing her breasts against Daphne's. The kisses of the two sisters became more and more heated, until Astoria suddenly stopped.

"Need you."

She hooked her fingers around Daphne's panties, pulling them down and discarding it on the floor, but Daphne spun them around on the bed, ending up on top of her, straddling her thigh.

"My treat."

She slid down on Astoria's leg, leaving behind a short, glistening streak, while her mouth followed above, planting kisses on her throat, trailing down, towards her chest. Her mouth captured the tips of the breasts, suckling, tongue circling around her nipples, teasing them, then biting lightly. Astoria shuddered, arching her back upwards, while Daphne moved further down, trailing kisses across her stomach, her fingers brushing feather-light over her skin, down her sides, then up along the inside of her thighs, carefully omitting her centre. Astoria uttered a desperate whimper.

"_Please …_"

Daphne shot her a playful smile, brushing back her hair, then delved between her legs.

"Oh Merlin!"

The room was filled with Astoria's breathless, frantic cries. Her body shimmered with sweat, thrashing around, fingers digging into the bedsheet. And suddenly, her eyes flew open wide.

"_Yes!_"

Her body shuddered as she shouted out her climax. Then she started to cough. Daphne fell back into the pillows next to Astoria, twisting her head around to look at her.

Suddenly, there was a metallic rustle. On the wall, the large hand of the clock had reached the small; twelve deep strokes of the gong resounded in the room. Astoria was gasping for air –

_There hadn't __**been**__ a bloody clock in the room, damnit –_

I stared at the memory on the screen, the slightly silver-tinged picture in front of me. Astoria tried to raise her hand and failed to. Daphne stared into her eyes as she died. There was no emotion on her face. It was a scene of utter coldness. She bent over her sister, kissed her softly, on the lips. Then Astoria was dead.

Daphne rose, and walked to the window, the sheet sliding down on the way, leaving her completely naked. She moved freely, completely comfortable with her state, and I felt the real Daphne giving me a squeeze and leaning her head against mine.

I watched the memory, saw her, all of her, naked, for the first time; the silhouette of her body, her calves, her backside, her shoulders, gentle curves drawn as by the most flattering artist, caressed by the soft moonlight that streamed through the window, giving her skin a silver glow. A single dark spot stood out on her back, like a mark; something vine-y, perhaps a leaf of ivy, coiling itself elegantly around her left shoulder blade. She turned around, staring out into the night, her bare back to me; she picked up her glass, lifting it as in a silent toast and drank.

"You want me, don't you?"

It was her voice, softly, at my side; intimate, just for the two of us, even if we hadn't been alone.

I tried to say no, fuck knows I tried – I did not want anything to do with her, not now, not after this, not like that – I _tried_, but the Veritaserum betrayed me.

"Yes."

Quiet laughter.

"You just watched me murder my own sister, and what you think about is my body. I'm becoming more fond of you the longer I know you."

Her hand danced over my skin, and she sighed.

"You know, if things weren't as they are, we could have made a great pair. It's a pity, truly."

She looked at me.

"Why?" She sounded frustrated and resigned, now. "You could have let it rest. I gave you a chance."

And this time I didn't even need the Veritaserum.

"_Because_ you gave me the chance."

My mind was back at the night of the ball, back when we argued, back when we kissed; even as our eyes met, and I thought I saw the same memory in hers.

_So that's the way it's going to be?_

_Yes. And you knew it would be._

"You really are too much like me." She paused and sighed. "But I suppose, if you weren't, we wouldn't be here in the first place."

…_that she would have been perfect – except she was Daphne. And that if she hadn't been Daphne, I wouldn't have thought she was perfect._

Her hand was now at my back, under my clothes, lightly roaming back and forth.

"But there's nothing saying I can't give you the night of you life … one last time …"

The ropes fell away as did whatever charm had held me still. She pulled me up, or perhaps I rose – perhaps I should have disarmed her, or perhaps I should have chained her or perhaps …

_Perhaps who the fuck knew._

The truth was I couldn't, didn't _want_ to – wanted nothing else than to kiss her, feel her – yes, I'd just watched her kill Astoria, and yes, I did not care. Not anymore. I couldn't resist her, her touch, her voice, her smile, and it was the same for her. She needed this as much as I did. And for one moment, just one moment, I allowed myself to give up struggling. I'd fallen hard and deep, but fuck if the landing wasn't soft and comfortable …

We both were damned anyway.

"You earned it," she murmured. Her arms were around me. My clothes came off rapidly. Then hers. "More than anyone. Many times over."

And then we kissed, and she tasted just like she always had, bittersweet; and we continued where we'd left off Friday, two days ago, an eternity for the two of us. We tumbled down, landing on the warm and soft rug in front of the fireplace, kisses urgent and needy; and I finally explored her body. She had had it right when she said I ought to see it. She had the body of a model, not too curvy, but exquisitely proportioned, her breasts firm and pert, braless under her red dress.

She laid under me like a sinful offering, arms spread, looking up at me, flushed and inviting, and my hands roamed every inch of her body, as if in an attempt to memorise it, now and forever. My mouth went from her collarbone down, and then along the small hollow from her navel across her stomach up to her chest. She hooked her arms around my neck, pulling me down. My mouth captured her breasts, closing around her hardened nipples and she arched her back, pushing herself against me with a moan, and then she spun us around, ending up above me and kissing my chest. Her pale blond hair brushed over my skin and I tangled my hand through it, above the mark of ivy on her back, gleaming wet and dark in the firelight; one of those ritualistic markings wizards and witches were given upon their birth in some traditional families, a manifesto and proof of their magic.

Her fingers ran across my body, and I mirrored her movements, tracing the five-pointed leaf; felt small shivers of her own racing down her spine like tiny electric shocks, followed them with my finger, down her back and to the black lace panties she was wearing. They were sheer, allowing me to feel her heat against my leg through the open fabric. My fingers ran along the meanders playing across her bottom, following the trim around her thighs. It looked breathed onto her skin like another finely tatooed pattern, covering just half of her cheeks.

Her mouth stopped for an instant.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

Her voice was thick and breathless.

"Take them off already."

And then we both were naked and kissed and fought out the last episode in our mutual battle, the one we'd fought since the very beginning, the one neither of us wanted to lose. She rode me, her breathy moans in my ear, her strong back arched, her breasts pushed out, her body covered in a sheen of sweat that glistened in the firelight; it was a picture of perfect beauty, a hundred percent poised elegance; she looked down at me, lips twisted into another one of these half smiles, manipulating me to new heights of pleasure. Until I rolled us back around, pinning her down, and her grey eyes flashed up towards me in fury that was exclusively channelled into our wild tryst. She wrapped her long legs around me like I'd hoped she would, urging me faster, her fingers digging into my back when she came with a cry, her nails leaving red crescent-shaped marks, as red as her lips, and then I joined her. And finally I fell to her side, and she sighed, kissing me, softly, lying next to me.

"You were marvellous, my lover."

And another word fell from full, red lips, and suddenly, she had her wand in her hand.

"_Obliviate._"

* * *

_**Review!**_

_G Fawkes: An ALREADY forgettable day :P_

_That was the idea – it's barely started, and already it's the sort of day where you better had stayed in bed. Regarding the details: thanks! The first step to get there is for me to have a clear picture of the scene myself: part of it is imagination, but I often prefer to describe what I actually see. So when you think it looks like a photo out of the Vogue – why, it just might be, because those are places where I look for models of things, people, houses, scenic parts. I need lots of pictures for writing stories. The internet is awesome for that kind of research. The vocabulary part of it, by the way, I found, is about the only part of writing you can improve without writing: by reading :) Thanks for your comments!_


	20. Chapter 20

–––**CHAPTER 20–––**

**I** WOKE up and felt great.

That didn't happen often, and even less recently, and I wondered why today was different. Then I remembered that Daphne had been over for dinner. The memory of the evening and our time together brought a satisfied smile onto my face. I turned my head and snatched the list off the bedside table. It had exactly one item.

_Get up._

Nah. I still had time – Robards had me suspended, after all, no stupid Ministry. I stretched luxuriously and turned over … and blinked. There was another piece of paper on that side as well, stuck to the wall.

_**Now**__._

I stared the offensively rude slip of paper. It was my writing, but I couldn't remember writing it.

Odd.

I rose, went into the bathroom, started to dress, and was distracted by a hoot. Sitting on my desk was an owl. It carried a letter.

"For me?" I asked it cheerily, and didn't mind the angrily raised ears of the Long-eared Owl. It wasn't as if the question was superfluous. I tied off the envelope, which included a short note and an official-looking document. I debated with myself for a moment and finally decided to look at the note first.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_As you requested, here are the preliminary results of the analysis of the body of the deceased Astoria Greengrass …_

"Huh," I said eloquently. "That's right. I did ask for that. Thanks, handsome one. Have a treat?"

The owl looked at me disgustedly and flew off. How rude. I sighed sadly and scanned the document under the note.

"Residential unfocused magic in the body of external origin … likely a fit of accidental magic … bruises on the back and back of the head, signs of a struggle, fallen backwards down before death, possibly pushed … cause of death: a third degree magical accident. Signed, Rafi Shafiq, Healer-in-Charge of blabla –"

Bah. Far too many maybes. I threw the letter into a corner, and discovered the owl had been sitting on another note.

_Faster._

Now I was getting annoyed. What did I write those notes to myself for? I went down the stairs into the kitchen, found a breakfast already prepared for takeaway, and started to look around – and sure enough, there it was, and told me 'grab that & out of the door'. I grabbed the note, not the breakfast, and there was something else on the written on the other side.

_Note to self: There are many things you don't know, some things you should know and one thing you __must__ know. And that is that you need to follow yourself – well, myself … the notes, damnit! Just do it._

Now that sounded more like me. So apparently I didn't have all the pieces, and known that I wouldn't have – which meant someone had tampered with my memories. I stared at the notes happily and admired my own cunning.

"You really are a sneaky bastard, Harry."

The paper slid out of my hand like a wet piece of soap and whacked me over the head.

"What the hell?"

_And try a sobering charm._

o ] [ o

The sobering charm had the desired effect and I spent half a minute cursing Daphne. Memory Charm and some sort of cheering concoction. Of course it had been her – no one else had both the means and the opportunity. This presented another problem, though – how could I know that _I_ had written those notes, and not her? Maybe I was running head-first into another trap.

I considered that for a second, and then shrugged involuntarily. There was nothing for it. It sounded like myself. I could only hope it actually was me, and that I'd known as much in advance as it looked like. It didn't seem like I had much more time to waste, anyway. _Your shortcut to the Underground and hurry –_ said the note that was stuck to the doorpost.

I took the bag with my breakfast, ripped open the door and tore out of the house. I made it to the patch of grass in the centre of Grimmauld Place before I heard shouts.

"There he is!"

"Stop, Potter – you are under arres-"

"_Protego!_"

I didn't bother to turn around and pointed my wand backwards. The stunning spell crashed against my shield. I zig-zagged over the square. Bits of stone chipped against my legs where the spells hit the pavement. Behind me, I heard the rapid steps of at least a dozen Aurors. I headed to the far end of the small square. The street was a dead end, but only for cars. There was a narrow gap between two houses. A fence barred the way.

I used a few crates as a buck, vaulting sideways over the fence. Spells hammered the crates to splinters, just as my hands left them. I landed on all fours, picking myself up and running out of the alleyway. Behind me, the fence exploded. Then the first Auror got the idea of _stopping running_ and apparated ahead instead. I dodged a nasty-looking yellow spell and cursed. Now I had them in front of me as well as behind.

I looked around, then ran down the main road. It was thankfully getting populated. I weaved through the people, pushing a man with a suitcase out of the way. Spells whizzed over my head, I ducked, caught the edge of a drain pipe and used it as a handle to catapult myself around a corner, into a narrow alleyway. I lay there, panting. Breathing in the smell of wet plaster and petrol exhausts, from the cars racketing past. Normality. Security. From further ahead on the main road, I heard someone curse as I vanished from sight. I jumped up, ducking around a motorcycle leaning against the brickwall, continued running, turned around a house corner towards the main road again, crouching behind a trashcan –

The Aurors ran past, and I snuck out as soon as they were past.

"Where did he go?"

"He has to be here, somewhere! Search!"

I heard _Homenum revelus_ spells cast where I'd disappeared, and sprinted down the road. When one of the Aurors looked up from where they were bent over their wands in search of me, I was already a good way ahead. They apparated again, but it was early Monday morning, and now we were already nearing the tube station, and everyone was streaming towards it, on the way to their work.

"Stop!"

I ignored the shouts, I knew the everything here like the back of my hand. The Aurors didn't. Neither the situation, nor the location. I pushed past a stout woman in a flowery dress and stopped running. Around me, I caught glimpses of the Aurors in their blue robes.

Directly under their noses, I crept past, drifted along the many commuters, on the sidewalk, then into the station itself. Annoyed shouts, far behind me. They had lost me, again, and now would have trouble finding me for a good while. As long as I did no magic.

On a pillar inside the station gleamed a red piece of paper. No one else seemed to see it, though. I pulled it down. It said: 'Calm down. Take the tube, and you have eleven minutes to relax.'

The tube took eleven minutes from here to get to Leicester Square Station on Charing Cross Road, so I travelled to Charing Cross Road. Around me, there were scores of people; the train was packed. On my left, a man in the standard black suit, with glasses and balding head read the paper. On my right, a young woman playing with her handbag, bored. All of them were busy with themselves, taking no notice of their neighbours.

I took the bag out of my pocket and ate my breakfast. Lights rushed past, then darkness, then lights again. Station, tunnel, station, that was the rhythm of the tube. I breathed in, then out, slowly calming down. When the doors opened the next time, I took a last deep breath, then pushed myself out of the seat. Leicester Square. I was ready.

Inside the station, another one of my notes waited for me, this time stuck at the door to a lift with an 'Out of Order'-sign. It also had a small golden key fixed under the text, and now things started to get interesting.

_Put on a glamour, as soon as you are in the Leaky Cauldron. Take the key, and use it to swap the contents of vaults 771 and 126. You have five minutes._

Five minutes was the average response time for Aurors when on high alert. Hell knows I would know.

I exited the tube, walking down Charing Cross Road to that space no Muggle ever noticed, between the record shop and the books shop. I entered Tom's pub, and exactly at the threshold, used two glamour charms to change my hair to blonde and my eye colour to brown.

Then I sprinted through the taproom. Tom called something, but I was already at the backyard. For once I was lucky, because the wall was already opening. I pushed past the elderly witch that was just coming through from the other side, running down Diagon Alley. Cauldrons on the left, Eeylop's on the right. Quality Quidditch Supplies, Madam Malkin's. Never had Diagon Alley seemed so long. I was panting when I finally reached the Apothecary and Knockturn Alley, and then, on the opposite side, there was Gringotts. The large doors were just opening. My timing was spot on.

As I passed the threshold, I felt the glamour charms dispelling. No one could enter Gringotts in disguise. They'd changed that after the last war, having learned from experience.

Inside, the building was still void of customers. I didn't have to wait, and crossed the great marble hall, heading straight to one of the tellers, still quite out of breath. As I approached, the goblin looked up once, glaring at me, then returned to his work, consisting of counting and sorting silver coins into different stacks. They all looked the same to me.

"Need to swap vault contents," I said.

The goblin sighed, then looked up. "Keys?"

I handed him the key.

"The other one is my vault. 711, no key."

The goblin stared at me for a few seconds, snarled something, then said: "Quarter hour."

Well, that was all I was going to get. I shrugged and picked up the key again. He would do as he'd said, within the time he'd given. No need for me to hang around here.

I walked back, looking through the hall, searching for another note, but there was none. I guessed I couldn't possibly have put one here. Then I realised that I still was the only customer inside. That was odd.

I frowned and walked past the inner, silver doors, into the anteroom. The burnished bronze doors were ahead of me, open and shimmering in the morning sun –

My foot froze in midair, just above the threshold. I stared out of the portal-like doors.

Fifty wands stared back at me.

They had brought the entire shift. In the middle, shit eating grin, sleek ponytail and all, stood Robards.

"Surrender your wand, Potter."

He had his pointed at my chest. His tone was surprisingly professional, but then again, he was among people. Bloody hypocrite. I lowered my wand, when a sudden white flash streaked across the sky and everything went to hell.

Immediately, the Aurors that already were on edge lost their nerves. Spells tore through the sky in a cacophony of shouts and incantations, there was a shriek or a screech, and floating down was a … feather?

The white blur swerved right, heading towards me and I recognised it.

"Hedwig?"

The sky was still alight with spellfire and the air filled with shouts. I didn't hesitate any longer and cast a shield, which prompted more spells from the Aurors, now heading towards me as well. The shield flared crimson as something I hoped was a Stunning Spell crashed against it.

"Stop fighting," I shouted. "It's just my owl!"

Again my shield flared crimson, then it collapsed. Hedwig screeched.

"Cease fire, Williamson!" bellowed Robards. "And the rest too. And you surrender your damn wand, Potter!"

"Okay, okay."

Hedwig on my shoulder, I bent down slowly, and opened my hand. The wand dropped the last few inches, then rolled ahead, tumbling down the stairs. It came to rest at Robards' feet.

I stood up again, showing my empty hands. Everyone lowered their wands. Most put them away.

"May I read the letter?"

I pointed to the piece of parchment Hedwig was dangling in front of my face. Robards growled something I decided was a yes, and I stepped fully back into Gringotts and unrolled the letter.

_Almost there. Visit Claire – Good luck._

…_you didn't surrender your wand, did you? To __**Robards**__?_

I glanced out of the doors. The Aurors had their wands all tucked away.

I really had a rotten sense of humour. Just one moment ignoring that tiny instinct seconds before during Hedwig's distraction and I would be in all sorts of trouble now. Breath in, breath out. My right hand crept behind my back.

"Change in plan, folks."

Robards stared at me. Then at the wand imitation at his feet. Then he saw.

"But then – what is – _a stick_! Watch out-"

My curse tore up the pavement of Diagon Alley, creating a ten feet deep crater. The Aurors were flung backwards. The explosion caught me with the force of a steam hammer, a brutal fist to the neck that threw me away like a rag doll, even though my shield was up.

I used the force to be carried away from the doors, sideways across the stairs, rolling as I ended up on the alley, unharmed.

Most Aurors weren't so lucky. Screams sounded through the air, it smelled of burned flesh. Did I care?

Half a dozen spells smashed the topmost step to pieces. One was bright green.

_Care?_ Maybe next year.

I jumped up, and the game was on again. Behind me, not quite a dozen Aurors were still in fighting shape. Ahead of me were people, screaming, running, blocking my way. I banished a mother and her child into the wall to my right, summoned a barrel from a stand to my left, evaded it. Behind me, there was a crashing noise. Something caught my ankle, I slipped and fell. I twisted round, using the motion to apparate ahead.

I crashed to the ground in front of the big Daily Prophet building hard, unable to stand on my right foot. A lance of pain shot through my ankle. I tried to cushion my fall with my arm, landed badly, and felt a bone in my forearm snap.

Cracks sounded behind me, they had brought our tracking specialists. I threw myself sideways, straight through the closed glass doors, couldn't suppress a scream as I crashed on the injured arm in a shower of shards. Behind me, where I had stood moments before, a hail of spellfire converged. I pointed my wand backwards awkwardly, transfiguring the broken doors into bricks. Then I sealed it. That would last a minute.

I was in a decidedly bad state. I felt pain, in every inch of my body. I had a broken ankle, a broken wrist where the bone was now shifted out of the correct position, and there was something running stickily down my back that I hadn't noticed before. Too much to be caused a shard of glass. Some spell had caught me, after all.

And I heard someone screaming. After some checking, I found it wasn't me. Using the display where last week's papers were aligned in a row as a crutch to drag myself ahead, I stumbled into the office of the Daily Prophet.

"This better had fucking be the last stop."

I think I said that. The screaming stopped. A strawberry blonde bun peered around the doorpost. Then she saw me. Then she screamed again.

I limped towards her, a small trickle of blood running down my face. It felt a little like a pincushion.

"Claire!"

No one beside her was here, yet. I sealed the door on the other side as well. Then I tried fixing my ankle with an Episkey spell so that I was able to walk, at least, which kinda worked, and propped myself up on the counter with my good arm.

"_Claire!_"

She stared at me wide-eyed, even forgetting to scream. I smiled at her. It probably looked like the bogeyman grinning.

"Morning," I said. "You got anything for me?"

With shaking hands, she pushed an envelope towards me over the desk. Her hands retreated at once, as if she feared a fire. Not all that bad an analogy. A white blur streaked across the room and onto my shoulder once more, hooting loudly. Claire shrieked again and cowered behind the desk. I ignored her.

The envelope contained a note, two phials filled with silver stuff and a package. Simple and straight forward.

_The phials for you, the package for Hedwig – to be delivered to the Daily Prophet in __three__ hours. Final destination: Geiger's._

Behind me, explosions rang through the corridor. I tied the package to Hedwig's leg and stroked over her feathers.

"Can you fly somewhere, and return here with the letter in three hours, girl?"

Hedwig hooted affectionately. Then she nipped my fingers and flew off.

"May I use the Floo, Claire?" She was still cowering behind the desk. I nodded at her. "You're a dear. See you later."

Another explosion rocked the building, and the stones rumbled and crashed. They had taken down the wall. I waved at Claire, shouting _Leaky Cauldron_, and vanished in a blaze of green fire, just as blue-robed wizards started to storm her office.

o ] [ o

I tumbled out of Tom's fireplace, knowing I had a little more time now. He wasn't behind the counter, so I simply apparated away, right into Wistmans's Wood.

I walked up the path to the grove of the dark trees, with the hut in the middle. On one of the trunks was a large, bright red poster. It read: _Welcome to Harry's Hide-Out. Aurors, Hitwizards and Greengrasses keep out_.

Well, that was nice. I cancelled the notice-me-not Charm, which had apparently hidden it from Geiger. At that moment, a kaleidoscope of colours exploded up around me, including a large purplish dome spanning the entire grove.

"Whoa."

I had done some serious warding work here. And the charm as a trigger? Full marks from Flitwick, thanks.

I tried healing myself. My ankle was alright, and I tried to repeat Cho's spell to mend my left wrist. The bone made an ugly grinding noise that had me grimacing, but in the end, it appeared to be successful as well. The spell wounds at my back burned, but I couldn't reach them myself. At least it had stopped bleeding, so it was only a scratch. Or maybe the shirt served as a plaster.

I pocketed my wand and entered Geiger's hut. It was empty. Apparently, it was too early for him to be back. A small beam of light slanted inside through the open door. It fell obliquely across the shelf on the other wall, and finally, I realised why I had come. I didn't even need the last note.

On the shelf, there was an old Pensieve.

I slowly took it down, and placed it on the table. All around the hut, there was an inferno of cracks. It sounded like fireworks; too loud, so I closed the door. I had time. I dumped the first memory inside, and delved into the silver light.

* * *

_For all the cute girls in libraries in New Zealand reading this out there. Glad you like it!_

_This chapter was inspired by an idea from 'Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex', by Pavonis Mons. Check my favourites – if you like Sir A. C. Doyle's books, you'll like that story. __**Review!**_


	21. Chapter 21

**–––CHAPTER 21–––**

**I** STOOD next to one of the glassless windows in the old tower that overlooked Azkaban Island, pondering a question. It was a very simple question, but it had far reaching consequences I didn't yet grasp fully.

I knew what I had smelled, minutes ago in Lucius' cell, and I knew I had encountered the smell before. It was a hint of juniper, reminding me of summery heathland, barely perceptible in the air but nevertheless unmistakeable; as unmistakeable as it had been in Tom's room at the Leaky Cauldron when I woke up this morning. Then and now … I was sure it was the same smell.

And both times, someone had died. Coincidence? Not the kind I believed in. But the important aspect was, standing on the threshold of Lucius' cell, I suddenly had remembered where I had smelled it for the very first time: in Daphne's basement, over a clear, simmering potion.

I rose and walked the two steps over to the glassless window, staring out of the tower in silence. The fog was still there, drifting by in billows, pushed on by the wind. It dug into my hair, smelling salty. I thought I could feel the spray of the waves that crashed against the rocks. Somewhere called a seagull. Lonely, defiant against the storm.

The implication was obvious. The question was why and how.

On the other hand, the key the guard carried to open the cell had finally reminded me what I had been looking for, this morning when I thought something was missing from Astoria's body. I had seen it often enough – her small Gringotts key.

A key could hide many things. Enough to kill for it? Surely. And Malfoy?

I tapped my fingers on the sill, frowning. He hadn't known anything in particular, but his words had warranted him an early death. Urgent enough for her to visit the most secure place in Britain. Even if she somehow afterwards silenced the guard, which she'd convinced to let her inside, it was still one hell of a risk. Anyone could have seen her. I made a mental note to check with the guards. So, why? And – she had to have known about Malfoy.

I pushed that question away, and focused on the last thought, agitated. The fact of the matter was, she couldn't have known that I had talked to Malfoy, since _no one_ had known – no one except myself. So if she knew, I had told her. That was the only explanation.

My mind raced through the implications. It meant she had had the means to make me tell her – had had the means to make me forget. I couldn't remember any of it. She had them then, and she would have them in the future. I needed to take that into account, when I dealt with her.

Countless little clues started to fit together. Her Hogwarts certificate, which had lauded her knowledge of potions and her excellence with complex charmwork. The two potions in her basement, one of which would be Veritaserum, requiring a skilled potion maker to brew it, and the other an unknown, undetectable poison. I'd have bet on that. And then, of course, one of the most complicated spells there was: the obliviation charm.

She had those tools, and this, finally, accounted for the missing Friday night. The details were hazy still, especially concerning the mystery of the room, but I put that aside for now. I guessed she had to have taken me home and interrogated me, afterwards arranging for Astoria's death in some way, something that she would have wanted to do for a while, and then pinned it on me, killing two birds with one stone. The how wasn't important right now. The actually important question here was, where did all that leave me?

I jumped up again, pacing through the small tower room. There was really no way for me to guess just how much I had told her, and how much I had known. Her ability to modify my memories was probably her most dangerous skill. It meant I couldn't rely on my memory implicitly anymore, to determine what was real and what wasn't. Was this her doing, then? The clues only figments implanted in my mind by her magic?

I frowned, then dismissed it as unlikely. There was no reason I could come up with why she would want to leave traces that pointed into her direction. More likely that I simply hadn't told her about those seemingly unimportant facets. After all, Astoria hadn't been dead yet, so I had no reason to suspect her. Otherwise, if she had known just how close I was to discover her secrets, I had no doubt I would have already joined Astoria and Lucius.

"Sloppy, Miss Greengrass," I said out loud. "Should have removed me anyway."

So why hadn't she, then? She had merely put a halt to my inquiries. If she had thought I was getting too close to – to what? Malfoy hadn't told me anything of consequence, had he? And yet she had killed _him_, and not me, even though he had no proof for any of his accusations, especially her work for Voldemort, whereas as long as I was alive, I remained in a position to use that information and find out –

I stopped and cursed. The chair went flying with a well placed kick.

A game, always a game.

She wanted me to find it. She had even said so herself, even if I hadn't believed her. And the reason for that was that she thought she could shut me up at any time, and that was true – something I had failed to consider as yet was the other side of the Astoria-complex.

If she had killed her, then she was the one who had framed me, but of course it also meant that it was only her testimony that got me back out again. I felt like laughing. She had me so good it was ridiculous. One word from her, and I was shut away in prison for life. No doubt that's how she liked things to be. I lived my life at her convenience.

Well, not bloody likely. Two could play that game.

She trapped me, I'd trap her. As simple as that. We'd see how she liked her own medicine. There was nothing I could do about her having me in check from various angles. But I didn't care for defending anyway, and she had left herself wide open. It was high time for a counter attack. What I needed was cold, hard proof of _something_. What I needed was to checkmate her before she did the same to me. And then we'd just see if she could waste more time playing her little games. I flicked my wand at the chair, which returned to its upright position, and strode to the door.

A flight of stairs and a conversation with a guard spent looking at the shift schedule later, I was looking for Walt of all people. I found him where he had apparently been last night too: In the third subterranean level that had housed Lucius and other special prisoners, cleaning the floors.

He blinked as I asked him if he had seen someone.

"I did, yes. She came around five in the morning. Not sure that she saw me, though."

I suppressed the impulse to tell him that she hadn't for sure, because otherwise he wouldn't be telling me. By the same token, he hadn't yet told it anyone else. I suspected he wouldn't have either, had I not directly asked him – he was the type to tell no lies, but also the one to ask no questions. So he had seen her – maybe he knew the implications when Lucius was found dead, and maybe he didn't. In any case he didn't want his name tangled in something _she_ was part of, and I couldn't even blame him. I almost felt sorry for what I was going to do. His eyes stared at me through his thick glasses as he looked up, hunched over his bucket of water, waiting for the question he knew I would ask.

"In that case, I'd need a official testimony. You have a moment?"

He sighed, a little sad, summoned the wet floor cloth that was dirtier than the corridor ever was, and lead me into a little room where the cleaning utensils were kept. A quarter of an hour later I had a statement from a witness that had identified one Daphne Bletchley, walking down the corridor, entering Lucius' cell, spending no more than a minute inside and leaving again; all the while Lucius had been sleeping.

Good, but I could do better. The next stop was whatever the key was hiding. Daphne's position was crumbling. Her mistake to put me in this place, where anything I did could only make it better. I started to feel the anticipation building, this strange but very welcome feeling in your gut that pointed towards an impending showdown. So maybe she was right. Maybe I needed my own rules, and my own way, to be free. But it was to her disadvantage that I rediscovered it.

Having nothing left to lose was a great position indeed.

o ] [ o

Outside, the Aurors and my wards produced a jaunty firework. It crackled and banged and flashed. I leant back into the rickety chair behind the table, folded my hands, and tried to reconstruct Friday night, with the information I now had available.

I had left the ball with Daphne sometime after eleven o'clock. I went home with her, where she had interrogated me. Meanwhile, Astoria had met Geiger in the Leaky Cauldron, and handed him the key, in a desperate attempt to get it to me, hoping I would look into him and inevitably stumble over it. A long shot, but it had worked. And not a moment too soon either, since the minute she had returned, maybe a quarter of an hour before midnight if Tom was right, Daphne decided to go ahead with her long-time plan and got rid of her.

That or something like it. I probably wouldn't ever know for sure exactly what happened in that last hour of Astoria's life, but I thought this might come close. It was the most likely progress of events. Daphne already knew of my visit to Malfoy and my vague suspicions. Possibly she simply seized the opportunity. Astoria having rented a room at the Leaky Cauldron that no one had seen her leave was perfect. Daphne had to have realised the implications in seconds. Because everyone still thought Astoria was with an unknown man up in her room at the Leaky Cauldron, she could return both of us there, and everyone would assume that this was where the murder had taken place, and that it was me who had done it. So she'd stunned and obliviated me, prepared Astoria and then … what?

Geiger had been in and out of the room at the Leaky Cauldron. So had Astoria; both had apparated away. And finally I had been there. We were the three persons from the site report. Daphne had never set a foot into the room.

We had been sent there by other means; Astoria dead already, assuming Daphne wanted to be certain she was. But what other means? The only possible way was for her was to portkey me and Astoria there, but there had been no item that could have been a Portkey. Nothing was out of place. And how had I ended up being the one who had used the wand to cast a Killing Curse at Astoria?

The entire shack shook under a particularly vicious barrage of spells, jostling me out of my thoughts. I needed to get a move on. Figuring out the last details was for later, I needed all the evidence against Daphne first. I rose; walking over to the tiny window over the hearth, peering outside through the layers of grime. The Aurors still were working behind the row of trees that shielded the clearing. Enough time yet for the second memory.

I walked back to the wooden table, tipped the other phial into the Pensieve, knowing even before I plunged inside what I would see. There was only one kind of additional evidence that I could have gotten my hands on on short notice, and that was the one from the vault.

After all, there had been another death that had looked completely natural, four years ago. Bletchley had died, and from all I'd read it bore all the signs of Astoria's and Malfoy's deaths. The question was, how? It seemed impossible. The vow prevented her from killing him. And then, there had been Lucius' suspicions of Daphne's work for Voldemort. Would she have left evidence for that behind? Well, we would see.

o ] [ o

If an explanation of the death of Miles Bletchley was what I'd hoped to find in the papers, I was disappointed. I was sitting in the living room of Grimmauld Place and writing the Bletchley-Greengrass report, but my thoughts were firmly in my own past, re-living the chaotic last days of Voldemort's fall.

The report had started with Malfoy's testimony and some account statements that were part of the papers, which proved Bletchley's role as Voldemort's backer, but it quickly became more, much more. It grew into a chronicle of the war, from the moment Voldemort seized control of the Ministry to his demise at my hands two long years later. In between lay the stations of a journey – London, Godric's Hollow, Hogwarts, isles of stark clarity dotted on a line that was blurry and confused in hindsight. Now it became my tale, my manifesto, my vindication.

I had been the war. At the onset, I hadn't needed a reason. I fought because it was the obvious thing to do, had lines drawn in the sand, a world divided in two. I _fought_ – there was no need to question the purpose, the action itself justification. It was fine for as long as Voldemort could be the absolute evil.

That safe, soothing conviction hadn't lasted three months.

An absolute evil required an absolute opposition. The first great battle had sent me crashing into reality. I didn't fight Voldemort in London. I fought ordinary people, Aurors doing their duty, passing-by wizards and witches standing up for what they thought was _right_, battling for a cause they believed in, with no less conviction than I did.

The fault lines suddenly ran straight through the middle of society – through old friendships – through Hogwarts. And I could not understand how. I fought against former acquaintances and was not sure why. I was forced to defend myself and ended up killing someone that shouldn't even have been there. My first Killing Curse – a bystander. After that day, I had wanted to give up.

Defiance drove me onwards, a stubborn will to win because to hell with the world I couldn't understand and with quitting now – surrendering to Voldemort, not after everything that had happened; but it wasn't the same. It became what it always had been: a personal feud, a struggle of two, because _neither could live while the other survived_; and if I needed help, I had to give them a different version of the truth.

Amidst crumbling support for me I managed, but it turned the fight into a race against time, as the point was foreseeable when the time would have come and too much of the opinion shifted against me. We came to Hogwarts just before the tipping point.

Or maybe it was just after.

What a fitting end to a grandiose tragedy, to finally win, but arrive just too late for it to matter … and face the bitter realisation so typical to war, that victory and defeat told a lot about who was stronger or luckier, but nothing at all about who was right.

But I needed to be right, and this report and the new insights would help me with that. I flipped through Bletchley's stuff. I always had thought Voldemort had been unaware of how close he had come to winning, that day after London, but now I realised how naïve I really had been. People believed in what they were given a chance to believe in. Voldemort had learned from the first time around, he stayed in the background; people saw Minister Thicknesse instead, read the news the Ministry had the papers print, and realised they still _lived_. What was a Dark Lord's reign, if it didn't affect you, as long as you did not oppose it? And if Muggleborns disappeared quietly, well, who noticed?

Bletchley's notes detailed it all, money for stories that painted _me_ as the true Dark Lord, money that went into the new Muggleborn Registration Commission that would be more aptly titled as Deportation Commission, money for distractions to keep the international community busy, such as buying the quiet of France's former Minister and leaving Britain to its own devices, or some operations to spark violence in Eastern Europe I'd never known about. No wonder the magical communities of Transylvania and Romania, to name only two, were still giant clusterfucks the ICW struggled to keep together.

And then there was Daphne's part of the report. She'd manoeuvred herself into a role as Voldemort's personal Obliviator. If he had a problem that needed finesse in fixing, she did it. All the poor sods that couldn't count to three and spell their own name, much less those of others, that turned up towards the end of the war ... yeah, she'd been busy. And saved more than one of the Big Names from Azkaban, because she strategically targeted the links between the different Death Eater cells that were likely to spill or threatened to do so, once everything started to fall apart.

Maybe it eventually hadn't even been so much Voldemort's requests than those of the Death Eaters in question themselves; favours that she did and would love to collect eventually. No wonder that she started rising up in the social pecking order and could more or less get done anything she wanted. She had to have a veritable network of people that owed her their freedom. I had a sneaking suspicion that Durmstrang alumni and friend of Dolohov's, Yevgeny – or Eugene, as he now preferred the English form for understandable reasons – Bobbin, had been one of them. Other names from the Eastern Europe part of Voldemort's followers had ended up with severe cases of memory loss in our hands.

Most of the information came from her journal. I read it in full; finding an oddly conflicted nature speaking to me from the pages. Vain enough to want to be able to share her achievements with someone – even if it was just a book – but cautious the next moment, only allowing hints of her actions to remain on the pages, as if to make sure it could never be used against her. There never were names, for instance, not hers, and not those of others, just allusions to things that had happened.

_Met V._, she wrote. _Interesting person. He was most pleased with the results in F. – D. forgot the speech and talked about Hinkypunks. National Assembly was stunned. I should have liked to be there._

Other entries dealt with Bletchley and made me seriously wonder what his life with Daphne had been like. She had hated him. There was no other word for it. Pages on pages of almost delirious vitriol spewed against him, hard to decipher and unclear as for their reason. If anyone needed a motive for a possible murder of her husband, here it was, a hundred times.

_It's nearly time. The clock is ticking, tick-tick – each second a step upon the stairs. I hear him. I hear him every time. There are thirty-six steps – thirty-six seconds until – _

_I left the windows open. Again. I shall be lying on my bed, as usual, watch the crows diving at me from black-blue midnight – their wings like fingers and their beaks like wands. Stabbing, maiming, burning – burning yellow eyes, circling all around me. The darkness floats across … Drill into me, peck my eyes out. No – no – I will tear _his_ eyes out. I shall run my fingers along his face and split open his flesh, take his redness and watch it fill the empty holes in his head – red eyes, as they were supposed to be, magnificent colour, so much red –_

_He deserves it. Bastard. Waste of magic. Perverse bootlicking piece of trash. Nobility? Ha! If they knew –! As if money could buy – But the steps, they come, if they take away the time, then what is – what …! I can't move! I don't – I can't …_

During those darkest moments, I'd have declared her on the brink of completely falling apart except for the fact that she seemed to be able to pull herself out of her funk with a snap of fingers whenever she wanted to; and that she was fully aware of what she wrote. One memorable instance included page-long passages of ranting and a fantasy of cutting Bletchley into pieces that suddenly ended with a long dash, mid-sentence. There was an empty line, the handwriting shifted from agitated to neat and calm, and in a spurt of sheer brilliance that started with "Anyway, …" she laid down a theoretic discourse on the Portkey charm that went miles over my head and could have been published straight away in any magazine worth its salt and probably earned her a nomination for the Gold Medal at the next International Charms Conference by the way. In it, she cross-referenced half a dozen other charms, among them the Prior Uti spell.

It was unbelievable, but I had the explanation for the malfunctioning Prior Uti charm here, and it was the same as the one for the missing Portkey. The item to Portkey me in the room had to have been the wand. The one item that _had_ to be there and that no one would think twice about.

She'd cast the Killing Curse herself, and then turned the wand into a Portkey that I, already rendered sleeping by her, _used_ to transport myself and Astoria's body to the Leaky Cauldron, which, as she'd discovered, changed the last user of the wand to myself, while leaving the last spell the wand had cast unaffected. Brilliance. Perfection. And only she knew it had actually been a calculated gamble as there was no telling how a magical item might affect the Portkey, which she needed to deposit us exactly on the bed.

Add the ruthless way in which she removed everyone that was a threat, and being heartless enough to kill her own sister, and you had an apt description of Daphne.

I remembered how Sterling had told me all this, not a week ago. He had been absolutely right. I closed the report and opened the last side of the diary. It ended with two words.

_Good riddance._

o ] [ o

I leant back in Geiger's rickety armchair, contentedly. Apart from Malfoy's death, for which I still lacked a satisfying motive, it fitted together. Astoria had threatened to expose her, so she killed her. I had gotten too close as well, so she framed me, killing two birds with one stone, simple, elegant and perfect. Except Astoria had become cautious, and gotten rid of the key just before Daphne decided to make her move. She was dead, but the key was missing. So Daphne took the game one step further, getting me out of jail again, ensuring it would make her even less suspicious, while knowing that I would jump at the chance to find the real murderer – and on the way, inevitably discover the missing key. No need for her to exert herself to get it, when I would do it gladly and for free, right? I'd find the key for her, she'd take it, retract her testimony, see me back in Azkaban and that was that.

Except I had no intention to go there. So what had I done? I retraced my steps from this morning. I'd been to Gringotts. I'd switched the contents of the vaults. And she had the key to –

The door buckled under the strain of what seemed like the entire Auror contingent, and maybe the Sobering Charm had worn off because I started to laugh. Green light, red light, blue light, all around me. Like a goddamn circus. Spells flashed, the wards came down, the door burst open, reduced to splinters. Aurors streamed inside. Holy Merlin's underpants, she would be _pissed_. That was the rage of epical proportions in which I'd always wanted to see her. Oh, why couldn't I be there when she opened the vault.

"Surrender your wand, Potter! It's over."

I flipped my wand towards the nearest Auror. I couldn't stop laughing. It was just so damn funny. To see her face when she opened the vault and didn't find the papers inside – after everything she'd done. She'd be so certain she'd won, and then … nothing.

That was the way they found me, sitting in a threadbare armchair in a ramshackle hut, laughing, and I still did as the startled Auror muttered something like Sirius Black and mad, still did as the world went black. It was just too damn _funny_.

* * *

_Final chapter in a week :)_

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	22. Chapter 22

–––**CHAPTER 22–––**

**T**HE CELL was the same one I'd been in two days ago. I was leaning against the cold wall, legs stretched out on the cot. The table across from the cell was still there, against the wall of the stone-tiled corridor. The chair was empty.

The torch spilled a sullen red light over the two rickety pieces of furniture, showing a few items thrown onto the tabletop. My wand was there, a couple of galleons, a folded piece of paper. The combined contents of my pockets.

I frowned at the paper, before I remembered. The article from the Daily Prophet. I'd completely forgotten about it. I thought of Claire and smiled. I wondered if she would forgive a bloke crashing bleeding and hunted by the entire Auror force through the doors into her office and thought she probably wouldn't. Well, the Daily Prophet had been a dead end, anyway. That piece of paper was just a piece of paper, a fake mysterious story about Voldemort's finances –

I sat up, electrified. That was it. How could I have missed that? I jumped to my feet, pacing the cell excitedly. Her whole plan appeared in front of me, it all made sense. This was the motive I'd been looking for the entire time. The real reason Bletchley and Astoria, as well as Malfoy, had to die. The article tied it all together, clearing away the last inconsistencies. Not fear or blackmail had been the ultimate reason, but greed.

The article was about Voldemort's, or rather the Ministry's, missing funds. I suddenly had a good idea where at least a part of it had ended up. And considering the burnt paper clipping, so had Sterling Greengrass.

I stood at the bars and looked at the crumpled piece of paper fondly. The last piece of the puzzle had slid into place. Everything was cleared up. In the end, it had been common avarice, a murder for money; and she _had_ killed Miles Bletchley, after all. Somehow. And my little burnt paper clipping had been a piece of evidence alright, the most important, even, because it provided the real motive for not one, but three murders.

It was done. The mystery was finally cleared up. Now all I could do was wait.

o ] [ o

Heels clicked on the stone. Tac-tac-tac, the staccato rhythm I knew so well by now, forceful, with purpose. She never walked hesitantly. My fingers copied the cadence on the wall.

She came along the corridor, imposing, tall, all in black; my black angel, beautiful and dark as the night. I hoped she'd be furious and maybe she was; I couldn't see her face, hidden behind a small black veil, sadly.

"No luck with your papers?" I asked.

She didn't respond.

"Well, what was in the vault?"

She lifted her hand and hurled the crumpled paper against my chest. It bounced down, onto the ground. I picked it up.

"You know exactly what was in the vault!"

Her voice revealed the rage her veil hid. I only looked at her.

"Actually, I don't, since you obliviated me."

Her fingers clenched around the bars, and I guessed she would've loved it to be my throat. I unfolded the scrap of parchment and read. It was a nice cream coloured one with an emerald border, complete with gold lettering:

_Visit me, I long for you._

o ] [ o

She only said a single word.

"Speak."

It sounded like a death threat. I leant back comfortably.

"Hmm … You know, for the longest time, I actually thought that all of this was because Astoria threatened to expose you. That you killed her, because she knew too much. But just now, I got it. I really got it. That was never the problem. Just like you said, you could have stopped any of her attempts in mere minutes, and you did. She never was a threat. She was just a child, forced to grow up far too fast, escaping more and more often to the sanctuary of her potions, when she couldn't handle you and her feelings anymore. Just a child. Helpless. Utterly alone. No threat."

My look roamed through the cell thoughtfully, all black stone, bare and cold. And it settled on her, in midst of all that black, somehow far darker and sinister than the cell ever could have been, and a thousand times more attractive in spite. Not all prisons are equal.

"So now, there's this story, Daphne. About a girl who had the looks to shame a Veela, and grew up to perform a triple murder, just for money. Mundane, ordinary money. It's almost a little disappointing."

Deathly silence. I shrugged and continued.

"The first one she removed was the old guy who was dazzled by her beauty. He was rich, but lonely, and, longing for her love, he asked her father for a marriage and was granted his wish. They married when she was right out of school, but, as he soon came to realise to his disadvantage, he got much more than he bargained for, because underneath the dazzling exterior, there was nothing to love, only a poisoned heart and a blackened soul.

"She abided him, if only for the sake of his money. But she saw it dwindle away as he used it to buy his way up Voldemort's ranks, and when, in the vicissitudes of the last days of war, she scored a coup in getting her hands on Voldemort's funds, those millions of Galleons, even that wasn't enough to keep her anymore, since she asked herself, why couldn't she have only the money, without the hassle of the an old dotard attached to it? And so she started to plot for ways to remove him.

"During her search, she stumbled over a rare and complicated potion, a poison – and one that long since had fallen into the dark realms of forget, and she realised it left no traces, and so she was sure no one would find out he wouldn't have died a natural death. She started to brew it, and one evening, hidden within the chaos of the days after Voldemort's fall, she gave some of it into his meal, and he ate, and died – and she did nothing but watch on coldly, as he eventually stopped breathing. She had killed him. That was the first murder."

"I know the story of my own life, Potter," she hissed.

I looked at her pensively. "Is it?"

She said nothing, and I shrugged again. "I wouldn't know. I have no proof. It is just a story. Maybe he was a disgusting pervert. Maybe he abused you. Maybe he drove you to the brink of insanity in endless, dark nights, again and again, until you finally could take it no more and –"

"Stop."

It was a single word that cut through my speech, ringing like shattering glass. Her hands had clenched so hard her knuckles stood out white, nails biting into her palms, but she never noticed; gone in her own memories, lost in herself, where nothing was but loneliness, like a frozen, snowy plain; white and cold and empty. Too long exposed, and every feeling turned into ice. Her beauty was the beauty of dying in winter's embrace, red cheeks, clear eyes, but perishing nonetheless. Perhaps she, too, was to be pitied. But she had chosen it.

"Anyone else I would have killed right now."

Her voice was shaking. And in a satisfying reverse of roles I offered her a small smile.

"I know."

She was at the bars with a few quick strides, clutching them, as close to me as she could be.

"You don't know anything, Potter! About what my life was like. About what I did and didn't do, and why. You know nothing at all."

I shrugged. "Tell me, then. I'd like to."

She reeled back, as if only now realising on which ground she was treading. Slowly, she gathered herself. There was long pause. Finally, she folded her hands and lifted her head.

"No. I won't. Important is who I am. What does it matter who I was? You have already made up your mind. You have your convictions, arranged reasons and circumstances to your personal liking. You went to look for a murderer and finally found one, wanted a remorseless killer, beautiful and flawed, cold and enticing. Let's leave it at that, then, it's fitting: I am what I am and don't regret anything, and so it is as good an end to this as any."

And maybe it was. The curtain fell, the lights clacked out, the play was over. Everyone applauded. Except I still wanted the truth. Didn't I?

_The truth, at this point, is merely that which you want to hear._

And she was wrong.

_Did you stop just once, for one short moment, and wonder if you only saw what you wanted to see?_

And if she wasn't … did it matter?

"Is that a confession of murder, Daphne?"

She cocked her head.

"Murder, Harry?"

"Aside from Bletchley, you killed Astoria and Lucius."

I had enough to bring her down regardless of what she said. Even regardless of what was true. I looked at her. She moved no muscle.

"No? You can't remember? Well, I knew that, anyway. What I didn't know was why. It was really the search of your motive. Both murders were mistakes you wanted fixed, but in the end, they were fundamentally about money.

"With Lucius, you finally wanted to bury the past. That was always obvious, but I thought it quite drastic. I had gone to him suspecting nothing in particular, and he told me nothing in particular. Nothing that was more than guesses and rumours, nothing that would be reason enough for an early death – or so I thought. I forgot he told me something very concrete, because it seemed so irrelevant to the case at the time. Bletchley had been Voldemort's treasurer; Lucius told me about that, about Voldemort, his funding, and Bletchley. He was the last person alive and able to link those facts together, and for that, he had to die. You tolerated nothing that could shed some light onto Bletchley, and thus, yourself – nothing that might indicate that money was part of the game.

"With Astoria, however, it was your own mistake. When you killed Bletchley, you didn't think about whose money it would be, did you? You were too hasty. Had you acquired the money _after_ Bletchley was dead, it would have been yours. But since he was still alive then, it was Bletchley's money, and when he died, because of the will Sterling had advised him to set up, the money suddenly didn't revert to you, but to the Greengrass estate, which you managed, sure, but only as a trustee, and unable to draw from it more than your allowance. Sterling told me about it. I figure that was the reason for deals like the one with Bobbin; you wanted to make your own money. Even worse, however, was the fact that of course everything would be distributed evenly between you and Astoria when Sterling died, along with the rest of the assets. Now _that_ must have been a blow."

I looked at her. While I'd talked, sitting on the cot, her hands had clenched the bars anew.

"You went to all that trouble, you thought it was the perfect crime, and then an old man got in the way? How did that feel? To find out there was nothing you could do –" Suddenly, her façade cracked, and her grey eyes flashed in fury.

"That old obstinate fool wouldn't hear about changing the will!" she hissed. "I had arranged the entire affair, it was my money! Why should I share it with that tramp of my sister? And he only laughed in my face and left it so just to spite me –"

She reigned in on herself almost immediately, but I had gotten what I wanted. There was a certain kind of satisfaction of having come to the right conclusions. I'd always felt that way. Today it was almost enough to make me feel something that could have been happiness, a life ago.

"So I was right. And you killed Astoria."

She said nothing. I shrugged.

"You don't have to say anything. You know what I have. That was the point in having you over. Bletchley's stuff, your stuff, the evidence regarding Lucius. Nothing substantial about Astoria, no. I can't prove that you killed her. I can't even prove that I didn't kill her. But I don't have to, do I? It's a nice story for the media, and someone will bring it before the Wizengamot. There's always someone like that. How many enemies have you made over time, Daphne?"

"They wouldn't dare."

She said it sharply, but there was a trace of doubt in her voice. It made me laugh.

"You're not invincible, Daphne. But by all means, we can see what happens. It's already on the way – we can sit here in silence, and in less than an hour everyone will know what you've done. Even I can't stop it now, not while I'm in here. I thought it might play out like this, with me back in a cell and a few memories short, and I took precautions."

A flicker of something moved across her face, then. "So it really was your plan all along. You knew what would happen once you called me. It was all an act, everything you said, everything you did, when we –" She stopped abruptly. "Why?"

Her voice was tight.

I raised an eyebrow. "Bitterness, Daphne? Merely because I used your own tactics? I thought that was what you wanted. Your game – traps within traps within traps. So don't ask me why. It was nothing but what you would have done. I wanted it that way."

Again, she was silent. The silence stretched on, becoming a wall between us, a shield behind which she retreated; or a cloak, to hide her, spun from the importance of words left unsaid, which far exceeded those spoken. An entire forgotten evening lay here.

"You are so sure that I killed Astoria," she said eventually. "I truly do think she loved you, you know. She would have done anything you told her. Just like you would have done for me."

I stared at her, in her black robes, her eyes and her face hidden behind the veil, though she was doubtlessly staring at me. And suddenly, there was a bright green flash in my memories and sharp piercing pain that had me clutching my head.

"Are you so sure you didn't cast the curse that killed her?" she said softly. "How can you? You remember nothing. And it wouldn't have been the first time you used the Killing Curse, or any of the Unforgivable Curses, would it?"

Something clenched around my heart, as I struggled against a sudden onslaught of four, five year old memories I thought I'd banished forever, from a battle in London and from other places, and with a sudden rush, the recent feelings of almost delirious power returned, ghosts of feelings from when I used the Imperius Curse on Geiger.

"I – didn't –"

I found it hard to speak.

"Doubts, Harry? Merely because I asked you?"

Her voice carried the cruel, mocking edge I knew so well. I was struggling to keep afloat, to escape her almost overwhelming presence, never sure if what I had seen was her doing or my own memory. Hard to tell when around her both fantasy and reality started to flow into one. Yet did it matter for my life whether I did it or not, if I remembered nothing at all?

"In your dreams, Daphne."

She inclined her head fractionally.

"Are you going to tell me you don't believe me?"

"Better," I said. "I've stopped caring either way."

And the moment I said it, I knew it was the truth.

"If you say so." Her fingers moved over the bars of my cell. "Yes, she loved you. That silly girl. Just like it was with Miles. She'd somehow convinced herself he loved her after he had fucked her, and now she blamed me for his death. She simply couldn't get past it. And that was all she saw in the papers. Proof that I had killed him, even though that was never in there; and she completely missed the real danger they posed."

It seemed I had finally figured out how to get her to talk, when I really should have known all along. I could unsettle her, but it only worked for the shortest of moments. I might bait her into saying something she would regret, but she wouldn't repeat that. She had too much self-control.

However, she'd talk to be spiteful. She'd talk to me for the same reason I would talk to her; to anger, to hurt, to embarrass.

"She completely lost it after our parents' deaths and then after Miles was dead. No one in their right mind would have handed her a fortune if he wanted it well-kept. And if Granddad hadn't been so hell-bent on trying to be as great a nuisance as possible, he'd have realised that himself."

"A trait which he passed down most definitely."

And in the end, between us, that was the way it should be.

"So you decided to help him out, and conveniently removed your sister entirely. I suppose old Sterling had it right, when he made those terms regarding his death and the inheritance, eh? Can't see you being happy with his constant interferences."

"I never had a problem with waiting for Granddad to croak," she said coldly. "That was, and still is, only a matter of time. I have patience, as opposed to my sister, and I learn from my mistakes. No sense in risking my inheritance. But sharing it with her, when it wasn't even hers to begin with? Never."

She stopped abruptly.

And still not actually admitted to any murder.

"And that is all you will hear, as it's all I'm going to say on that matter. I didn't come to chat about my life. You know what I want. What do _you_ want?"

But perhaps that was just as well.

"To live happily ever after. But I guess that isn't in there for me, is it?" I leant back. She looked at me derisively. "Not? And there's still so much we could talk about too. I never quite figured out how you managed to remove Bletchley, when you were married to him with the Vow. But very well, here's how it will go. The papers are in two different places – a Gringotts vault and on the way to the Daily Prophet. You will get me out of here, and I don't care how and what you have to do for that. And then I will hand in my report."

And suddenly, at the last sentence, there was a smile on her face, and I knew I had made a mistake.

"Yes, your report."

She pulled out her wand, conjuring a fancy antique chair that appeared to be slightly transparent and one leg short. She looked at it, sighed, then dismissed it with a shrug and sat down on the one that was already there, taking off her hat and folding her legs. All the tension and urgency had suddenly left her, and that didn't make me feel comfortable at all. All at once, the atmosphere had shifted, and she was back on top of her game.

"So you would really see me in Azkaban." Her slender fingers slowly twirled her wand, above the hat in her lap. "Your hand is good, Harry, but not as good as that. If you truly want that, it will cost you. You ask for both, but you will get only one. Either your freedom, or my conviction. Not both. Just one."

I stared at her, but there only was her pitiless gaze.

"You don't honestly expect me to be your ticket out of prison, when this still means my own demise? No, Harry. I will not pretend that the papers out in the public won't hurt me a lot, but there's still only so much I will do. I haven't ever handed out favours for free, and that is not going to change now. Don't forget that you are still the one accused of murder here. You need _my_ help. Not the other way round. And there's another issue."

Her voice became softer, almost sympathetic.

"You have made this into something it isn't, Harry. It was a game, nothing more. It matters to the two of us, but the rest of the world doesn't care. It never was this great crusade you wanted it to be – against the Ministry, because you thought it broken, against the entire world, then, ultimately, the world you wanted to prove wrong – because the Ministry is not independent of its people, but merely a reflection of it. That is the entire secret. And that is why you never stood a chance. No one can fight against the entire world, not even you. All this is is a gesture. Nice, but in the end meaningless. So why bother?"

A little stick, a little carrot. Or her variant of it, anyway. I snorted.

"I bet that's what you'd like. Nice try, but I knew that all along. And I think I'm actually doing pretty well, all things considered, but that's not the point. The point is that you belong into prison. It's where the world puts criminal people, you know."

I grinned at her, waiting for the explosion, and it came. The sympathetic tone vanished as quickly as it had come. "Stop being dense on purpose, Harry!" she exclaimed angrily. She rose and spread her arms.

"Do you think any of this, anything I was and anything I did, would be possible if people truly cared? They don't. They live in ignorance and are happy that way. But you couldn't let that stand, could you? Oh no, you could not let rest what was well over and buried. You sought to drag what everyone wants to forget back to the light, regardless the cost, regardless the consequences. Why? What do you want, Harry? What are you trying to prove? That somehow, you are not like _them_? To whom – to yourself? You already know that. To me? I do as well. We _are_ special. And to hell with the unimportant, stupid rest!"

I jumped off the cot.

"It's not about proving anything," I hissed. "And I'm well aware of how you and your kind justify your privileges, so spare me. This is about –" I broke off and stared at her. "I'm not going to bother with reasonable explanations. I could write an entire book about why everyone would be better off without you. You belong into the deepest dungeon that Azkaban has to offer for everything you did. Justice is an universal ideal. I'm sure it exists. Somewhere."

I grabbed the bars of my cell, suddenly certain. The doubts, the questions, the search for the _truth_ … all that was left behind. That wasn't why I was here, and why she was there. The time for self-delusions had passed, a long while ago. The iron was cold and unyielding under my fingers, as unyielding as my resolve. _This_ was the truth, the only truth, and I found I could live with it.

"You ask what I want? I want to throw you into prison because I _can_; and it will be the best day of my live when I decide pay you a visit in Azkaban."

Her eyes flashed in anger, and with a quick step she was directly in front of the door. I returned her glare, and for a moment our fingers gripping the bars of my cell that were all that kept us from going at each other's throats.

Then she stepped back, and gave a short, hard laugh.

"Why do I even bother."

If there had been something fragile, something special between us, I would have said that was the moment it had shattered, broken beyond repair, but of course there never was, and so everything was just as always. Her voice was hard, her eyes cold.

"I have no desire nor time to talk about this any further, Harry. Honeyed, elegant words and clever manipulations – on you, it's just wasted. You listen to no one but yourself, and respect nothing but brute force. But I can be that way. So do whatever you want – you'll do it anyway – you have all along – but be aware of the consequences. You need my help to get out of here, and if you don't keep everything you know to yourself, I'm not going to do it. It's that simple."

She said all this, increasingly agitated, and I cheered in silent victory as she spat the final words, hurling them at my face, full of anger. She started pacing in front of my cell.

"You want to make a point? Fine. If this is really what you want, you have me here. The Dark Lord's personal aide, guilty more crimes that I care to count. I wiped out lives. I wiped out memories. Yes, you were right, I _confess_ you were. Wasn't that what you always wanted to hear me saying? So have it, then, my confession – and now make an example of me, heap upon me the sum of all misdeeds ever done and bury them in Azkaban." She stopped and whirled around, chin lifted defiantly, staring at me, hard. "How nice it must be to feel righteous. But _you_ are the one in a cell. So ultimately, it appears the question only is – how far are you prepared to go for your _ideals_?"

"You would walk into Azkaban, just to make sure I did as well?"

Her lips curled into a derisive sneer and her eyes burned in sudden fury.

"And if it's the _fucking_ last thing I do. We can be cellmates. How does that sound, Harry?"

I looked back at her, her posture tense, agitated, the grey eyes stormy and angry. Her voice was hard and brittle as steel. And I realised that she meant what she said, and at the same time saw the flaw in my wonderful plan, reflected in her furious, unyielding look and the implacable words – and a mirror of myself.

"Believe you me, I had other plans for my life. But so help me, if I go to Azkaban, so do you. So do you."

o ] [ o

For a while, I merely stared at her walking up and down in front of my cell restlessly.

She was serious. I was sure; as sure as I was that she finally had realised the same of me. At last, I had backed her into a corner. Not by physical means, no, I had tried that and lost. Not by magical means, I had found my match. So what was left was purely a state of mind; I had forced her to acknowledge me, and when the moment came and she did, the balance shifted. We now played my game, by my rules. My plan, hastily cobbled together when I had nothing more to lose. It had worked.

It had worked _too well_.

I stared at the woman who had stopped pacing, watching me, unblinking; fiercely determined to see me going down because nothing else was left and to hell with the consequences. It was a state I knew all too well.

So like all good tales, this one had a perfect irony at the end: That my success prevented me from winning, and that the one thing I had forgotten was to account for myself – in her.

When nothing was left, I'd simply ploughed ahead, racing towards her, daring her to stand in my way, lest we both fell. Except this put her in the position I had been; she had nothing left to lose, saw the same situation, felt the same entrapment, drew the same conclusion. The same mindset. The same reaction. Both of us determined to win at all costs, both of us determined to see the other fall, because there was nothing else _left_ – both of us racing towards each other, to that one spot on the bridge where only one could pass, and neither willing to yield. Two lunatics playing chicken. The game had ended in a full collision course.

Perhaps it was fitting. I had finally come to terms with what we were – two of a kind, destructive forces at heart, two juggernauts in a world with too little good to hold us down, and so, each one of us was the destruction unto the other, lest we destroyed the world.

But for all that inescapability, I was finally in control, I had wrest it from her and from all the Robards' in the world; I had to decide. What happened finally would be my choice, my choice alone, I would decide both of our fates, I had to pick the path we both took. And so I arrived, as in a large circle, back at the question she had asked me: How far was I willing to go?

It was a question that stilled me the moment I felt it run through my mind. There was no obvious answer, no immediate reaction. I would love to say that I at once responded 'however far it takes'. The hero that charges ahead, heedless of his own safety, the martyr that dies for his believe – like these wonderful, larger-than-life persons that were the stuff tales and epics were made of, that always knew what was right and didn't think twice about it. But that wasn't what was happening.

Instead, I wondered – _would_ I have responded that way, once upon a time? Would the boy that jumped after Quirrell through the trapdoor for no other reason than that he felt it his duty also have forged ahead here – even if it meant a life in prison?

And instead, I doubted – did I _have_ to do it, again? Couldn't someone else do it, for once? I had had my quota of heroism. I had already risked my necked for the rest of the world. Many times. Countless times. Far _too_ many times. It was simply enough.

This wasn't an epic. It didn't work like that, not in real life. I stared at the bars. Iron, black. A world encaged in iron bars. Fuck, this was _my_ life.

I stared at her, stared at us, separated by the bars, she on one side, and I on the other, but in reality there was no saying who was within the prison and who without. We had played a game, each to the best of our abilities, and in a weird twist of fate, it had ended in a draw.

So where did we go from here? What came after the end of a story? What did you do, when everything was done, but nothing really finished?

I had proof of what I set out to prove within my grasp, but Daphne had landed me in a prison cell, awaiting a straightforward conviction for murder. She, in turn, had wanted me out of the way, and so I was, but I had used her own momentum to drag her down with me. We were locked together.

Perhaps there simply wasn't an answer. I thought of how I had felt and lived more this week than the entire last four years put together. I thought of stormy grey eyes and perfect legs, and a heart as black and corrupt as Dark Magic herself. I thought of the rest of the world, and wondered what would happen. The people? They would remain the same, faceless, grey, content in their small, unimportant lives. The Ministry? The Ministry would be as it always was, corrupt, lazy and bureaucratic.

So really, what was left, then? I had tried, Merlin knows I had. More and beyond anyone else, but it hadn't worked out. And the truth was, I was tired of it. So fucking tired. Someone else could do it for a change. I seriously needed to get on with my life.

And I stared into her eyes, slate-grey against bright green, and she read me, knew my answer, perhaps even before I did. And for once, she didn't mock me, simply nodding her head, seeing my conclusion and agreeing with it. I had the strange feeling that she respected me for it.

_We _are_ special, Harry._

So perhaps it wasn't the noble way out. Perhaps it would destroy the world. Perhaps I had failed, after all. Or perhaps this just wasn't a fairy tale, where the hero rescued Snow White and lived happily ever after; but instead, the evil queen killed the king and married the hunter; and I just finally stopped having my saving people-complex, and did what everyone would do. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ... who the fuck lived in possibilities?

_How far are you willing to go?_

Further than almost everyone else.

"Not to prison."

So fuck Happily Ever After.

o ] [ o

There was a spell of silence that descended over us, filling the dimly, half-lit stone passages of the section of cells with an air of waiting. Eventually, she sighed softly, and her look became a curious mixture of resignation and annoyance.

"Which leaves me with the problem how to trust you, once I got you out. Even if we exchange the respective evidence, you will still know too much."

I frowned.

"You wouldn't trust me?"

"Do you trust _me_, Harry? To trust you, even?" Her voice was sardonic.

I needed only a look. She said nothing, stared at me, at the wall. Her grey eyes flickered with a myriad of sudden emotions – fear, anger, desire, disgust, anticipation – it was as if something had broken inside of her, and suddenly I was reminded of the diary and the moments of sheer darkness. Her fingers clenched around the backrest of her chair, until suddenly there was nothing. Nothing at all. She merely looked a little resigned.

The resigned expression gave way to a resolute one. There even was a slight smile now. I waited.

"Marry me."

I almost fell off my cot.

"_What?_"

I stared at her, completely flabbergasted. She had tried to kill me. She had tried to get me carted off to Azkaban. And now she wanted to – to –

"You – what?"

"I'd think you would eventually talk, and you'd fear I'd eventually remove you, and we both would be right," she said impatiently. "I don't want to live like that. Marriage includes the one vow that is able to successfully assure we both are safe from each other. Have you already forgotten how it works? If it is complete protection from me that you want, this is the only way to go."

I only stared at her. Countless confused thoughts ran through my head. It was too sudden. Too improbable. Too –

_What's it like, marriage?_

_Hell, she said. Her look went to the dark night clouds on the sky. I'll never marry again._

"Besides," she went on, "I know you are attracted to me. So where is the problem?"

Maybe that she was a murderer. Maybe that she tried to frame me. Maybe that we hated each other. Maybe that she was talking about _marriage_.

I didn't say any of that.

"Superficially, yes. The rest of you is nothing less than disgusting."

She gave me a long and thoughtful look, and for a final time I felt like she simply looked through me, seeing more of me than others did, more, perhaps, than I was ready to admit for myself at this moment. In the end, she shrugged, and let it pass.

"And so? Isn't that enough?"

She spread her hands, looking at me, head held high – lovely, defiant and unashamed. "You have seen me. I won't pretend to be something I'm not. I stand here just as I am: Unrepentant, proud, ruthless and beautiful. That is all I ever was, and all I ever want to be. Take it or leave it. The choice is yours."

o ] [ o

I said yes. Of course I did. Damn her, damn my weakness, damn my fucked-up life. Merlin knows I would have sent her to prison, to rot there till her death. Fuck, I would have. But now that this wasn't an option …

I said yes. Of course I did. I needed her, needed my weakness, needed my fucked-up life. The final temptation, and I gave in. A life in ordinariness, or the reckless dive into the maelstrom. Was that ever a question?

I'd picked my future. Perhaps I'd regret it later. Later, when she didn't make it easy. Not for me, and not for herself. It wasn't what she had wanted.

I refuse to give you excuses for yourself, she said. That Miles was a sick, disgusting individual and deserved it. That Malfoy killed who knows how many in two wars and was going to get away with a slap on the wrist. That I regret Astoria's death. I don't. If what I did is your problem, walk away. Turn around, never look back.

But you can't, can you? Not any more than I can.

And that was the closest she ever came to admit that there was something that kept her with me. Something that drew us together, something destructive, like some weird form of anti-love that made us wish each other to hell and to just leave and yet forever unable to follow through. It was an exercise in futility to explain it to anyone else. We fought, a lot. It was as though we were the sole persons left to elicit _something_ from the other, something with meaning, even if it should be only anger. Maybe that would have to be enough.

But later wasn't now, and now was all that mattered – and all that would ever matter – and so it came that we stood in a dingy corridor with bare, ugly brick walls, Daphne the picture of poised elegance in her black costume with her head held high, little more out of place than a gold nugget in a hovel, I in my usual days wear, hastily cleaned up with a few spells, and the both of us assisted by a quickly called ministerial official, who floundered, flustered and disbelievingly set out to perform what he was told was to be a marriage for life.

His watery blue eyes darted from me to Daphne and back.

"And you are sure – you –" One look from Daphne was all it took to silence him.

"Yes, yes, quite sure, I see. Merlin help you, Mr. Potter."

I conveniently overheard the last sentence, and then the official took out his wand and bade us to clasp our hands together, before he started to intone the ancient marriage ritual.

I stopped him, and looked at Daphne

"You know, the only thing I can't figure out – if the vow works as it does, how could you kill him? You couldn't have – or you couldn't have married – him …"

I trailed off, suddenly staring at her, amazed.

"You _didn't_? But – but how –"

I spun around and turned to the waiting Ministry worker.

"Is it possible to amend to vow?"

The man blinked.

"Not really, Mr. Potter. It's fix the way it is. People sometimes ask this, but you can't expand it. To fidelity, for example."

I choked back a laugh at Daphne's withering glare the official missed, luckily for him, and shook my head.

"No," I said. "That wasn't what I had in mind. Just include our names explicitly, if that's possible."

It was a wild guess. The vow, from all I knew, never usually included the names of the participants, it merely bonded the two persons taking it. Could Bletchley have married someone else? A polyjuiced Muggle? Someone under the Imperius Curse? I guess I'd never know.

The Ministry official was obviously confused, but said nothing further. I guess, by then he had given up, and passed me off as a lost cause and off my rocker anyway. The wand glowed golden anew as he intoned the vow, stating our full names, and Daphne smiled coolly.

"Very clever, Harry."

But she didn't pull away. And then it was over and I had her, and if there had been one tiny instant where I'd desired just that, it said nothing so much than _be careful what you wish for_. So what was left, at the end? What was the end of the story?

I was free. I was rich. I had the beautiful girl.

And she was cold as ice, had gotten away with murder, and loved no one but herself. If ever there was need to prove that everything good – too-good-to-believe – had a catch, and nothing in life was for free, here it was.

So ask me what I thought and I'll answer freely. Did I ever lose my belief that she should've been tried and convicted? No, but I wasn't ready to spent years in Azkaban just for my convictions. Did that make me less of a person, then? Perhaps, but then it also made me human. It was a game, the big game. Where everyone had to make the best with what he was given. And in the end, I was only and just as much a player as the rest.

So no, it most certainly wasn't perfect. But it was life.

* * *

_A short Epilogue's left, which should be ready by tomorrow._

**_Review!_**


	23. Epilogue

**–––Epilogue–––**

_Getting Away With Murder_

_In a stunning __revelation__, Auror Andrew Williamson was accused of the murder of Astoria Greengrass. Williamson, who until now was thought to be a reputable member of the Department of Law Enforcement was not available for comment. "Glad they finally got him," happy shopkeeper Abraham Blotts, part-owner of the London bookstore told the Daily Prophet. "The poor, poor girl. I hope they give him to the Dementors. My sympathy is with the family." We at the Daily Prophet echo this sentiment._

_Williamson, married and father of a son, lived on the surface the quiet life of an upstanding family man. His motivations remained unclear, until the Daily Prophet discovered facts that shed some light on his character and showed a very different person. Williamson had a fierce dislike for the Greengrass family and the Ministry, culminating in statements where he cynically mocked Mrs. Bletchley-Greengrass after her sister had just died (see page 2: The Horrifying Words of a Killer). "It was horrible," says Mrs. Bletchley. "He just threw her death into my face. I simply can't believe there are people this malicious."_

_Pivotal in the case turned out to be the close examination of the wand found at the crime scene, which already had been determined to have cast the Killing Curse. It was now identified as Williamson's second wand. "He possessed two, both bought here," renowned wand-maker Gaius Ollivander confirmed for the Daily Prophet. "The wand the Aurors showed me was his, certainly. I remember every wand I ever sold."_

_According to rumours, former Auror and famous Boy-Who-Won Harry Potter was thought to be a suspect, before the new findings were able to firmly consign those rumours to the realms of fantasy. Potter, who announced his relationship with the older Greengrass sister and his intentions to marry the young widow only two weeks ago, catapulting them straight to the top spot on the list of Britain's celebrity couples, didn't want to comment on what in his words were "groundless […] suspicions by a few […] people."_

_In a Daily Prophet Exclusive Interview about her imminent wedding to Potter in autumn and the sheer fairytale romance between a war hero and the heiress of one of Britain's most notable pureblood families, Daphne Bletchley also expressed her displeasure at the delayed proceedings and the initial suspicions. "Obviously, the mere idea that Harry, the man that fought against the Dark Lord, might be involved in my sister's death is simply ludicrous and shouldn't even merit commenting on. I personally told Head Auror Robards this, and he reacted most rudely. One does wonder if he is the right person for this position." Department Head Pius Thicknesse issued a sharp rebuke into the direction of the Auror Office. Investigations are pending._

_Robards himself did not want to be quoted and blamed Williamson for the false lead. It seems clear that after this despicable attempt of framing his famous former co-worker in an attempt to save himself, Williamson will be sure not to expect any kind of mercy from the Wizengamot._

– _Read the society section for the full interview with Daphne Bletchley-Greengrass, and the continuation of this story on page 2._

Sterling Greengrass was in his study on the ground floor.

He was sitting in a straightbacked wooden chair, with some ornaments cut into the brown wood, which made it look fancy, but not any more comfortable; surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. There was a large desk, in front of two open French doors leading out into the garden, letting the muggy air inside, still with no cooling draught to speak of.

On the desk, an almost full cut-glass bottle and a glass with an amber liquid stood on his right; a small stack of paperwork was pushed to the other side, the centre covered by the front page story the Daily Prophet had run this morning. He stared at it, the mouth stretched into a thin slit, his grey lips nearly disappearing, as he started to cackle.

"Wanted to get rid of her sister, and got stuck with Potter instead. Priceless!"

The picture that came with the article included three persons; the woman rigidly proud, with a frosty smile, an Auror captain looking apoplectic, the Boy-Who-Lived uttering the full quote, including the words the editor had edited out.

"Prissy, stuck-up bitch," he mumbled. "Thought maybe I wouldn't notice if she didn't tell me, eh? Bah! We'll have that will changed alright."

His hand crumpled up the page, clutching the ball of paper and throwing it with an effort into the fireplace, to the other, sealed document that was already smouldering there. He lifted the glass, holding it at eye-level, and sniffed at it.

And then he downed the drink.

o ] [ o

Maybe two dozen people crowded on the high street in Hogsmeade, facing a small house with a garden. She stood at the back, having come last; but before long, she started pushing her way ahead, to the fence, past a man in wrinkled Auror robes, past his look of sadness that brushed her and touched nothing. She arrived just in time to witness how two men in Hitwizard-attire dragged a third man out of the house; ignoring his shouts until one of them had enough and silenced him.

Behind them, a small boy, no older than five, ran after the wizards through the garden, fear on his small face, vainly trying to reach his father's hand.

"No! Dad! Where are you taking my Dad?"

His distressed shouts went unanswered. She saw him trying to pull on one wizard's sleeve, and he pushed him away, annoyed.

"Clear off, boy. This is Law Enforcement business."

The other looked at him, but said nothing. The child stumbled, fell down, bursting into tears. No one came to pick him up. She looked at his mother, usually a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, now red-eyed and sobbing herself.

"Why? What has he done?"

The man tried to say a few words and grab her hand, which one of Hitwizards batted away, and pushed him on, roughly. A small smile slipped over her face. His wife broke down, weeping, burying her face in her hands.

They passed her and his eyes caught hers; he froze and stared at her, face ashen.

She stood very still then, just looking at him; on the grassy wayside at the main road of Hogsmeade, where they had dragged him to, right next to her, preparing to portkey him away. Her voice was quiet, but cold.

"I told you I would remember you."

In the crown of the old oak above her head, the birds sang. It was a warm, sunny day. She turned around, pulled something out of her pocket, and vanished.

o**  
**

**The End.**

* * *

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I enjoyed reading all the comments, as much, hopefully, as you did reading the story. From those to whom I couldn't respond, I'd specifically like to mention G Fawkes. Thanks as well to everyone who helped me at various points in the writing process, all of whom can be found at the Dark Lord Potter forums. You guys rock. And finally, now that I've proven to myself that I can finish stories, I'll get back to my old stories. The next update will probably be for The French Affair. Maybe I'll see some of you there?_

_-SeriousScribble  
_


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